


Apex Predators

by sifshadowheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cherry Picking parts of other 'verses, Especially for worldbuilding, F/F, F/M, Full-Shift and Half-Shift Werecreatures, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, No Malia Tate, Polyamory, Pre-Slash, Shapeshifting, Slash, Were-Creatures, one-sided Aiden/Lydia, temporary Ethan/Danny, were!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-10-28 10:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 69,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17785310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: "You either turn or you die."  That's what they said about taking the Bite.  Too bad that when it comes to the way things "should" be, Stiles tended to be an outlier.Were!Stiles fic with Slash and Polyamory





	1. Chapter 1

** Apex Predators **

**_A Teen Wolf Story_ **

_By Sif Shadowheart_

Disclaimer:  _TeenWolf_ , it’s storylines and characters belong to MTV and its associated companies, this is a non-profit-seeking fanfiction without infringement attached.

Author’s Note:

Well, obviously this is out of my normal wheelhouse but TW fandom sucked me in hardcore while I was preparing for my trip to Europe and the U.K. so wtf anyway.

I also did some research into tips that are usually given to parents to help manage ADHD so I hope I’m not totally talking out of my ass in regards to some of the things I have Noah doing in this fic that didn’t happen or just weren’t shown in canon from what I can tell.

**Warning for SLASH and A/U**

**Chapter One: Single Parenting is a Team Sport**

When ten-year-old Stiles Stilinski first began visiting a comatose Peter Hale, it was eight months after his mother died of a protracted battle against frontotemporal dementia.

It was February and Peter had been left alone in the long-term-care ward of the county hospital after being one of three survivors of a house fire that had left Peter with massive burns along the right side of his body and only two of his extended family – including his sister, brothers, parents-in-law, wife, various nieces and nephews, and his unborn child – alive if orphaned.  Three weeks of intense battles to save him in first the Intensive Care Unit and then the Burn Care Unit stabilized him.  It might have been kinder, all things considered, if it didn't and he'd been allowed to pass in heavily-medicated peace.

He had visitors only twice in those three weeks before Stiles ever found his lonely bedside.

Once, and first, was a gloating Kate Argent who sprayed his seeping wounds with a fresh round of wolfsbane the second night he wasn’t under twenty-four-hour watch and sent him right back to the ICU.

Next, and never again for years, was his niece Laura Hale.

She didn’t visit long.

No, not long at all.

Just long enough to present the hospital with a Health Care Power of Attorney she’d had filed by the well-paid Hale attorneys that dumped all decisions and responsibilities regarding Peter’s care on the shoulders of the newly-elected Sheriff, cut his pack ties, and high-tail it out of town as dual fears of Child Protective Services coming for sixteen-year-old Derek to remove him from her care and that of hunters returning to finish the job the fire started sent her careening across the country with Derek in tow, not stopping for more than a few months at a time until they landed under the aegis of the New York shifters, a massive network of two wolf packs, a wild-dog pack, a single pride of werelions, and the random solitary or family-based shifters so large that not even the prestigious Argent hunting family dared breech the peace to come for a pair of Hale werewolves.

The newly-elected Sheriff, one Noah Stilinski, had been perhaps the only soul in Beacon Hills to find himself trusted by Laura Hale after what happened to her family.  Not due to the congenial relationship the former-deputy had had with both of her parents who alternately managed the Hale Trust or the Beacon Hills Nature Preserve, the latter of which was a subsidiary of the former, but because when the investigation into the destruction of her family was ruled an accident by the arson investigator, Sheriff Stilinski offered to put pressure on the fire department or hire an outside investigator.  Four days was all it took for the investigation to close.  Beacon County might be a small-fish in the greater California ocean of people, but Noah Stilinski wasn’t a fool.  He knew something was rotten and wasn’t afraid to cause a tizzy sniffing it out.

That willingness to look harder and deeper meant the world to a young and newly-minted Alpha werewolf who knew thanks to mountain ash and wolfsbane permeating her former home just _what_ had caused her family to die.

And it certainly wasn’t an accident.

It also wasn’t something she could afford to chase down with her large pack and family whittled down to three wolves, one of which might never recover.

For his part, Noah was flabbergasted at the trust shown by the young woman, and while it gave him an idea of what was soon to come – no one turns over a Trust worth millions to another without reason, _no one_ – in the end he left her be.

He let her run and take her brother with her.

What _good_ would have come from pouring salt in the wound of her dead family by trying to force her to stay after all?

Granted, running with a sixteen-year-old wasn’t _quite_ legal, but given that CPS had yet to remove him from her care it wasn’t _illegal_ either.

Stiles went with him to oversee Peter’s transfer to the long-term care ward, an event that had an extremely volatile Stiles showing a rare ability to be both calm and quiet in deference to the wounded man and sparked an idea between an at-his-wits-end father and his therapist/grief counselor.

To say that neither Stilinski male had taken the death of their wife/mother well would be an understatement.

Noah sank into his work with the rare dive into a bottle that saw Stiles shuffled off to the McCall – Stiles’ best-friend’s – house.

Stiles…Stiles just sank.

Grief.

Anger.

Depression.

You name it, he was slowly buried under it until it was looking like he might have to be pulled from school altogether, requiring more supervision than a single public-school teacher could afford to spend on a single troubled – if justifiably – student.

Stiles had always been a handful, almost from the moment he was born.

His mother hadn’t called him Mischief for nothing, even if the nickname was originally born from his inability to pronounce his actual first name.

Intelligent off the charts and energy not far behind it, when adding grief, rage, and depression the mix Noah had on his hands made him at times relieved to find that their house was still standing, let alone the elementary school, the library, and the sheriff’s station which were his main haunts aside from some evenings or weekend days with his best friend Scott and his family.

So when it was found that Stiles when presented with a person in great need, such as comatose Peter Hale, could focus and complete simple tasks such as reading aloud or helping reposition him or push his wheelchair around the simple paved garden loop without any of the behavioral issues that were staring to become a Major Concern™ to his father, Mrs. McCall, and his therapist well…let’s just say that when it came time to fill out college applications he would end up having a _ton_ of community service hours volunteering at the Beacon County Hospital located in Beacon Hills.

Of course, over the years it became less a matter of therapy via volunteerism as he – and his father – adjusted to their new normal without their binding-tie of the late Claudia Stilinski neé Cadwallader and more a matter of taking comfort in routine, especially when he found at age twelve that his unique cocktail of hyperactivity was actually ADHD.

 _Promote Structure_ was probably the very first thing he and his Dad were told by his new counselor when his grief counselor started recognizing behaviors that weren’t necessarily _grief-related_ so much as markers for Stiles having a hyperactivity disorder, even if thanks to his Dad’s job it was one of the hardest tips to implement.

Exercise was easy when Noah could throw Stiles into the small gym at the Sheriff’s department with one of his deputies or have him help exercise (run) the K9 units, and once exercise became a regular thing they both saw an improvement in his son’s ability to sit still for longer than three seconds.

Well…unless he was hyperfocused on something but _that_ was another issue altogether.

But, thanks to Noah having Peter’s power-of-attorney and paying the man’s hospital bills via the Trust in addition to Stiles being the man’s only regular visitor besides Noah himself, the staff on the ward were able and willing to help create a routine for Stiles’ visits instead of the whatever-works philosophy they’d gone with before so long as whatever-worked also fell inline with what was on the schedule for Peter’s general care.

It went a bit like this:

Three days a week Melissa McCall, a registered nurse who worked at the hospital but not in the long-term care ward, picked up both boys from school after her shift, dropping Stiles off back off at the hospital before taking her own son home.  Stiles would stay under the watchful eyes of the nurses and aides, either reading out loud to Peter or taking him on a walk via pushing his chair according to the big calendar Noah put in Peter’s room.  Noah picked him up just after five.

Wash, rinse, and repeat.

Other days of the week Melissa would drop Stiles off at the sheriff’s department or ferry both boys home after soccer or little league or whatever sport was in season at the middle school.

Noah repaid the now-single mother with car repairs, shuttling Scott to weekend practices or games as far as an hour away, and taking Stiles to the hospital to visit whenever Scott had a bad asthma attack that left him hospitalized for days or even weeks at a time.

Single parenting was very much a team effort at the Stilinski/McCall houses.

Needless to say, by the time the boys both hit high school and Scott’s bullheadedness had him dragging himself out to the lacrosse field while Stiles’ need for a less-aggressive sport (his Kendo obsession requiring trips to San Francisco twice a week aside since the senseis were _much_ better at keeping a handle on their students than the underpaid coaching staff at the high school) to keep him evened out, aggression one of the _helpful perks_ kids with ADHD got to deal with thanks to few if any people around him understanding how he worked and how his brain function was different than their own, had him joining up for cross-country, swimming and diving, and track, Stiles knew more about police procedures, hospitals, and ways to manage both grief and ADHD than anyone would have ever guessed.

And that was all _before_ his volunteering – and his temper – got him in more trouble than he ever could have _dreamed_.

…

_Sunday, January 9, 2011; Beacon Hills, California_

Sheriff Noah Stilinski looked up from his lonesome dinner of pizza and a beer in the living room while watching Sports Center at the sound of his sixteen-year-old son stomping up the porch steps and fumbling his way through shoulder-checking the front door closed, hands full between the house keys in one hand and his backpack in the other.

Some things had changed over the years as Stiles grew.

The ability to move quieter than a herd of particularly clumsy elephants was _not_ one of them, Noah having spent more than one weekend having to patch holes in the drywall from Stiles tripping – on his shoelaces, a rug, a book, _the air_ – and knocking a hole in a wall or door.

Though the latter had led to Noah investing in solid-wood doors after the soccer-ball and bathroom incident when Stiles was thirteen and his limbs really started to outgrow the rest of him.

Experience told him that between the door slamming shut a few decibels louder than normal and the frown creasing Stiles’s brows when combined with the under-his-breath-muttering that something or someone had gotten his son into a _mood_ whilst the lack of actual cursing or ranting or a full-on door slam or tossing aside of his backpack pointed towards a mood of the severity of a thick fog over Stiles’s evening instead of fully-formed thunderheads or an all-out storm.

Sunday meant that Stiles had been doing his volunteer shift at the hospital, pointing towards either an issue there or on the fifteen-minute drive home.

This being California, Sheriff Stilinski never underestimated the fierce and enduring issue of road-rage.

Stiles greeted him with a short “hi” before thundering up the stairs to drop off his things in his room before joining him for their time-honored and Stiles-enforced cheat-meal.

If Noah could figure out _which_ presenter at his kid’s Freshmen high school career-day gave him that pamphlet on heart attack risk rising after forty he would give out a gleeful spate of parking and traffic tickets in retaliation for Stiles’s panic-induced research burst that led to the Stilinski men having to switch to turkey bacon, a lack of cheeseburgers, and far too many salads for Noah’s taste and sanity.

Noah waited for the kid to plop down on the couch next to him with a can of Sprite from the fridge and inhale half a piece of combination pizza – meat lovers was a step too far for Stiles’s nerves to handle – before asking the dreaded question both men knew was coming after Stiles’s entrance.

“What’s up, kid?”

Stiles muttered inaudibly around his mouthful of pizza before swallowing and washing it down with a hit of lemon-lime carbonation then explained.

“They messed with the shifts at the hospital again.”  Stiles scowled at the hockey game his dad had found to watch rather than lock eyes with the all-too- _knowing_ expression the Sheriff was sure to have on his face.  “Finally met that new nurse’s aide they hired for Peter’s wing.”

“And you don’t like her.”  An amused smirk tugged at the corner of Noah’s mouth.  He knew it.  He’d seen _that_ coming for months, ever since Jeanette “Jenny” Fontaine had been hired.

It took a certain personality type to work in health care, and another again to deal with long-term patients and hospice.

Unfortunately, as they’d learned since Claudia’s… _illness_ , that led to two main types of nurses and aides they’d had cause to interact with over the years: the good ones like Melissa, who never let their ability to compartmentalize take away from their compassion and care for their patients.

And the others.

Ones like Jenny Fontaine who genuinely didn’t give a shit as long as they got paid and toed the line required by the law and their employer, never doing enough to get fired but not enough to show that they gave a damn either.

Stiles had run off more than one of the second type over the years with his antics that like those he targeted weren’t illegal or anything that could garner an official complaint.

More than once Noah had been glad Stiles had spent enough time at the sheriff’s department to have a firm grasp on legal/illegal the rest of the time he cursed it since it was also at the sheriff’s department where Stiles had convinced one of the deputies to teach him to: lockpick, know forensic countermeasures, command K9’s, and avoid speed traps.

Noah _really_ hoped Stiles went into law enforcement after college otherwise he’d probably spend the rest of his days worrying whether his son wasn’t a criminal because he’d managed to teach him right from wrong or if Stiles just hadn’t been caught.

Well, everything else aside, at least Stilinski Puzzle Nights had taught the kid deductive reasoning and logic, something Noah found lacking in his son’s best-friend Scott all too often so he wasn’t a complete failure as a parent.

“She’s cold.”  Stiles admitted after downing the second half of his pizza with savage bites and snagging a second piece from the cooling box.  “The cold ones are the _worst_.”

Mainly because Stiles can never tell for _certain_ whether they’re just apathetic or a genuine sociopath.

“What’s she do?”

“Positioned Peter facing the _wall_.”  Stiles’s complaint was nearly a growl.  “And snapped at me when I went to turn him towards the windows.”

“And did that adjustment of yours take place quietly and politely?”  Noah asked with a knowing arch of his brow regarding Stiles’s infamous _attitude_.

Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a no.”  Noah chuckled, draining the rest of his beer as he sat back with a sigh, wiping his hands with a napkin and leaving the last two pieces of the pie for his growing-like-a-weed boy.  “At least tell me I won’t be fielding another complaint from Melissa regarding your baiting the aides.”

“Why do you always ask me to lie to you?”  Stiles smirked.  “And it was just her in the room, it’s not like there’s any witnesses when I asked if she got her nurse’s aide certification at the bottom of a dumbass pile.”

“I didn’t hear you say that.”  Noah told him as he climbed to his feet and cleared the pizza remains after Stiles snagged the last pieces and headed towards his room, junk food and soda in hand.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, old man.”

“I’ll show you _old_ …”

Stiles snickered under his breath at his dad’s muttering as he bounded up the stairs, narrowly avoiding a collision with the newel post at the top and careening into his room and computer chair like a pinball on crack.

Now…what was a new and refreshing way to scare off a bitchy nurse’s aide…

It wouldn’t do to repeat himself.

He had a reputation to protect.

…

Before Stiles could get too deep into plotting the eventual (career) demise of one Jenny Fontaine, the phone rang downstairs, a rare thing in the Stilinski household on Sunday nights since everyone up to and possibly including the Powers that Be knew that the Sheriff’s time with Stiles this one night a week was sacrosanct even if all they did some weeks were exist in the same space at the same time.  His dad tried, Stiles would always agree with that, tried to be home for dinner every night and to (still despite Stiles’s driver’s license) take him into San Francisco just over an hour away for kendo and iaido practice, tried to help with homework and household chores but there were times shit just got in the way.  Deputies called out sick.  Others had family emergencies.  Vacation hours had to be used before the county had to cash them out.  On the worst weeks those things just piled up and got in the way.

Stiles wasn’t a latch-key kid like Scott, not really.

His ADHD didn’t really allow it.

Now that he was older and had a better handle on it, could be trusted not to start cooking something and get distracted and burn down the house (a legitimate concern his dad had for the first couple of years after his diagnosis), yeah he spent more time alone.

But still, his dad never stopped trying to be there whenever Stiles wasn’t in school or at a sport practice.

He didn’t make it home by five every night during the week or on the weekends he pulled shifts.

But he tried.

So for his dad to be getting a call on a Sunday night after seven, that really only left one thing: an actual _crime_ above and beyond the petty theft, drunk and disorderly or DUI’s, and vagrancy issues that made up two-thirds of crime in Beacon County, with the other third primarily comprised of drug-related issues (beyond petty theft and vagrancy which were drug-related more often than not) and the occasional more-serious crime such as assault, battery, and so on.  If the sheriff’s department was calling his dad…it had to be something that fit in that “so on.”  Like homicide of any flavor.

All of which flitted through his hyperactive mind – low dosage of Adderall and exercise only did so much and increasing the former made him feel and act like a zombie – in a split-second, Stiles moving before it really registered as he carefully lifted the handset on the house phone the way one of his many tutors in misbehavior (re: his dad’s deputies, usually to get him out of their hair while he practiced his latest skill set) to avoid the Sheriff from knowing he was on the line and listened while holding his breath and giving himself away.

_Everyone was being called in._

_Even a search and rescue team from the State Police._

_There was a body in the woods._

What happened next, well.

That’s where the story _really_ begins.

…

“Why the hell do I always let me talk you into this crap?”  Scott McCall complained bitterly as he tromped through the cold confines of Beacon Hills Nature Preserve side-by-side with his impulsive best-friend Stiles Stilinski.  The question was rhetorical and they both knew it.  Scott had been letting Stiles pull him into various plots, schemes, and shenanigans since they met when Scott’s dad was transferred to a temporary posting in Beacon Hills in the first grade, Stiles defending the asthmatic boy at that first recess from the villainous claws of one Jackson Whittemore who’d pushed him down and nearly sent Scott spiraling into a panic attack as he fumbled for his inhaler.  Stiles had punched Jackson, found the inhaler, and helped Scott while the recess attendant hustled over.

Stiles got in-school-suspension and a referral to the school counselor for his “aggression issues” that a few years later would be tagged as one of his accompanying issues that came with his ADHD.

Scott got a friend for life and had been following him from one bit of trouble to another ever since.

Though his latest was particularly messed up.

School started tomorrow, Scott had to get ready for lacrosse practice on Tuesday, and, most importantly at the moment, it was both cold and dark _as shit_ in the preserve.

Which considering how _large_ the preserve was, wasn’t the most comforting situation in the world.

“Because your life is boring and at least I’m entertaining.”  Stiles grinned over his shoulder at the pouting face of Scott, his sad puppy dog brown eyes sparking a bit of remorse in his chest.  In hindsight, yeah, not his best idea.  But when it came to his dad and anything even semi-dangerous, like looking for half of a body that died of unknown causes, he’d never been all that rational since his mom died.

Well, that, _and_ he’d already been primed to do _something_ by the bitchy aide at the hospital.

“That,” Scott sighed shaking his head and trudging along on Stiles’s heels.  “That explains _so much_.”

Before Scott could complain once more, Stiles waved his hand at him with a _shushing_ sound.

Then Scott heard it.

Dogs and people: they’d gotten close to the search parties.

Stiles whipped around and grabbed hold of Scott’s wrist, having enough sense even in his panic to not get caught by his dad or anyone – which would be literally any member of the search teams – who would turn him into his dad not to lose his best-friend when Scott’s not the most…outdoors-inclined person in the world.  Turning in an about-face, Stiles hauled ass away from the danger of being grounded for life, moving as quietly as possible in the dark forest with Scott stumbling along behind him and cursing him out under his breath.  Meh.  They’d done stupider things.  Though it did come close.

Slowing when he heard Scott start to pant, Stiles turned to face his best-friend, an exhilarated grin on his face.

Granted, not the adventure he’d been hoping for, but at least they weren’t bored anymore either.

“Whew, what a rush!”

Scott snorted, rolling his eyes as he dug out his inhaler and took a hit as he felt his lungs start to heave and his breath catch and tickle, heading off the imminent attack from sudden activity combined with abject panic.

“That’s not what I’d call it.”  He noted drily, looking around.  “Dude, do you even know where we are?”

Stiles echoed Scott’s motion then shrugged and dug out his cell phone and pulling up the compass app and turning this way and that with it before pointing.

“Beacon Hills borders part of the preserve’s southern end.”  He explained, tucking the phone back away once he’d gotten oriented.  “We were out less than an hour, as long as we walk that way,” he pointed.  “We should either hit the parking lot or fields bordering the preserve or signage marking the end of the preserve and the beginning of the Weyerhauser working forest.”

“Dude.”  Scott said with no-little amount of respect.  “The crap you _know_ sometimes…”

Stiles shrugged.  His dad being the current trustee of the preserve wasn’t exactly a secret, but it wasn’t really public knowledge either.  That combined with a _lot_ of time spent at the sheriff’s department over the years gave him a pretty good idea of boundaries and crap within Beacon County since his dad and the deputies were in charge of patrolling the public lands which the preserve both was and wasn’t.

They’d been walking maybe five minutes towards what Stiles had identified as the south when they stopped again for Stiles to make sure they were still heading in the right direction, his phone battery too low to risk running it constantly, when a sound made them pause.

Not just _any_ sound, no.

Rather, a loud growl.

The sort belonging to a large, predatory, creature.

Stiles and Scott exchanged one frightened look, then bolted Scott only able to keep pace with the perennial-runner Stiles thanks to a combination of fear-laced adrenaline and the hard conditioning he’d been doing in hope of making first line in lacrosse.

Not that it mattered a few moments later, as faster or not, Stiles was bowled off his fleet fleeing feet by a massive shadowed form.

To the terror of his best-friend, a massive form with _red eyes_ that seemed to glow as it lowered its head over Stiles’s fighting, shouting, _screaming_ self, taking a hard hit to its muzzle before snapping down and biting hard on a flailing thigh, when a combination of squirming and training threatened to throw the creature – _a wolf, maybe?_ – off with a hard two-legged kick.

Scott’s terror ended up costing him dearly.

Instead of running away while he had the chance, as Stiles was _yelling at him_ to do, he’d frozen in place, not stumbling away until the creature had leapt away from a still-fighting Stiles and turned those burning red-eyes on Scott himself.

He ran.

And managed to get all of a few feet away from where Stiles was already struggling to stand on a leg with a deep, bleeding laceration to his outer thigh – _not his inner, no not that, he wasn’t bleeding out, not that Scott could see_ – before the heavy form, Scott getting a whole new appreciation for the strength hidden in Stiles’s swimmer’s form at almost bucking it off, pounced pinning Scott to the debris-strewn forest floor.

 _“Scott!_ ”

Faintly he heard his best-friend scream for him over the rushing of blood to his ears then the _pain pain pain_ of the bite to his side just above his hip, the cry seeming to echo as his vision threatened to white out.  He was sure he was going to die.  Then a combination of events served to give him hope.

First, Stiles gained his feet and in a move any football player would appreciate, likely left over from their brief one-season stint in pop-warner before Scott discovered lacrosse and Stiles was warned away from contact sports, used all the speed and momentum his body was capable of summoning to hit the creature – _it was a wolf, Scott was sure of it_ – in the vulnerable joint between shoulder and chest, knocking it away with a shout from Stiles and a snarl from the creature.

Second, before it could carry through on the imminent-death implied by fangs flashing in the moonlight and terrible snarling rasps from the misshapen creature, it cocked its head as if listening to something they couldn’t hear before snapping its jaws once last time in their direction before disappearing as quickly as it came.

“What the _fuck_ , dude.”  Stiles gasped around the dueling pains from the bite to his leg and his shoulder that he’d felt _crunch_ in a new and interesting way when he’d hit that solid body pinning his best-friend, his _brother_ , to the ground.  “What the fuck was _that_?”

“I don’t know, man.”  Scott groaned as he climbed to his feet, helping Stiles while he was at it.  Finding the flashlight he’d lost in the tumble and using it to get a good look first at Stiles’s thigh and his own hip.  “But it wasn’t screwing around, we’ve got to get these treated.”

Stiles groaned, face paling.

“Not your mom, bro.”  He pleaded.  “She’ll tell my dad and we’ll _both_ end up still grounded when they lower us into the coffins Mel is gonna put us in this time.”

Scott thought a moment, nodding as they checked Stiles’s phone figuring out which way they needed to head now that that weird… _thing_ messed up their bearings.

“We can go to the clinic.”  Beacon Hills veterinary clinic; owned and operated by Scott’s boss Dr. Alan Deaton.

“Yeah.”  Stiles brightened up despite the throbbing in his shoulder and the piercing pain of his leg every time he had to put weight on it.  At least it was swimming and diving season not cross country or track.  Small blessings.  Kendo tomorrow was going to suck ass though.  “You have a key to feed the creatures don’t you, Scotty.”

“Mhmm.”  He hummed under his breath as he shouldered more of Stiles’s weight as the boy fought to put weight on his wounded leg.  “Bandages, butterfly closures, and antiseptic aren’t locked up: everything we need to cover up this whole messed up night without alerting the parentals.”

“Word, brother.”  Stiles nodded, still feeling loopy from his near-faint at the sight of blood.  “Word.”

...

Every day during the school year Stiles _loathes_ having ADHD more than anything and for a single reason: _routine_.

Keeping to a routine was one of the main things that helped narrow his ability to do impulsive shit, Stiles leaning very much on the hyperactive-impulsive side of the ADHD spectrum whilst still having some of the inattentive issues as well just to make his brain chemistry fun and interesting to cope with.

And since a big part of his otherwise free time was sucked up in activities that burned energy and kick started dopamine production to help counterbalance the shit in his head, his routine had a handy side-effect of not only keeping him somewhat able to focus without derailing onto tangents every ten seconds on the inattentive side without abusing his Adderall prescription but also helped him from completely spazzing out from his hyperactivity symptoms.

Ever since his comprehensive diagnostic review was completed and handed down, the motto of both Stilinskis became “whatever works.”

Stiles amended it when he got older to “whatever works and doesn’t fuck me up too bad” but anyway…

He _wished_ he could blame it all on his Dad, he really did, since the man had jumped at the idea of using exercise to calm down his tornado-of-energy son, but a good third of his activities were a result of his own research and pinging from thing-to-thing until he found things that kept his attention for more than one or two practices without Scott to anchor him there, his asthmatic bestie not as capable of _doing all the things_ when it came to physical activity as Stiles was though he gave it his best shot.

That aside, Scott also had definite _ideas_ about how he wanted to spend his time.

Which was cool, don’t get him wrong.

Scott was his own person.

Still, his best-friend was better at Stiles-ing than anyone else but his dad, and even then the other boy’s ability to just shrug stuff off made him less likely to get frustrated with Stiles than even the elder Stiliniski who’d been Stiles-ing for years longer than Scotty.

Anyway, in the end Stiles estimated that his packed-schedule other than post-dinner most nights of the week was an even three-way split between his Dad’s ideas, Stiles’s own, and those randomly tossed out and picked up from his therapist, well-meaning friends of his dad, and the various deputies that had to deal with Stiles on the regular.

Martial arts was a big one though they’d had to cycle through about a dozen different disciplines before finding ones that were the right balance of energy-draining and focusing, as well as snagging Stiles’s interest.

Tai Chi was one of the first and even though it tested Stiles’s ability to focus with the slow, gentle movements, it was also taught by one of his favorite deputies Tara Graham at the local community center so he sucked it up rather than frustrate one of the few people that would hang out with him during his dad’s shifts.

She’d suggested that he and his dad look into a few of the more active forms of martial arts which led first to Taekwondo.  Then Aikido.  Then Judo.  Then they started having to look outside the immediate area of Beacon Hills.

Stiles found a Kendo demonstration on YouTube eventually and a club in San Francisco and that was that: he started at thirteen and didn’t stop.

Yoga had also been Tara’s suggestion and Stiles liked it enough that when the instructor looked to move to Sacramento two months ago she first took him to a training retreat to get certified enabling him to teach at the community center in her place, Stiles appreciating the money considering that most of the time the only thing keeping his Jeep Roscoe running was duct tape and hope.

The yoga class he taught on Saturday mornings was mostly to elderly women and a few tired soccer moms but whatever, money was money and he’d be doing a routine as part of his schedule that day anyway.

He mostly alternated days with tai chi/yoga one morning and solo kendo practice the next, which during the school year saw him grouchy and up at the forsaken hour of five-thirty a.m., that particular day meaning that he only got a whopping five hours or so of sleep after the _adventure_ in the woods and getting patched up by Scott at Deaton’s animal clinic and then sneaking back home before his dad gave up the search for the night.

Replaying the attack – massive form, red eyes, terror – kept him awake for hours until exhaustion pulled him down.

Exhaustion or not however, he knew what happened when he broke routine and _that_ was a level of squirrel-on-crack he did _not_ need to screw around with on the first day back at school for the winter semester.

His dad would _murder_ him if he got detention for being, you know, _himself_ the first day back.

A thought which in light of his latest fuck-witted impulse had him crawling out of bed and shaking off the cobwebs of shitty sleep and all-but-falling into his first waking pose of the morning.  A wake-up routine of yoga, katas from tai chi, and wind-down routine from yoga, then he had an hour for showering, dressing, breakfast chased with an Adderall extended release pill and driving to school.

Slapping a fresh bandage on his leg, which looked _much_ better than Scotty’s griping care and well, the blood, had made it seem, he pulled on a pair of black jeans with a bright-red t-shirt and a kinda-matching flannel plaid shirt in red and blue and he was out the door with a wave to a stumbling-for-coffee Dad.

Tossing his backpack on the seat next to him he double-checked his timing and sent a little prayer out to the universe in general – he wasn’t sold on religion or deities given, you know, _evidence_ or the lack thereof – that Roscoe would start, giving a little cheer and a pat to the faithful dash before pulling out onto the non-existent traffic.

He had just enough time to run through Starbucks for a latte before submitting himself to the cruel and unusual punishment that was Advanced Placement Trigonometry first period.

…

Stiles sipped at his half-and-half latte – one shot caffeinated espresso and one shot decaf, Stiles might have spies and conspirators at all of his Dad’s favorite spots to keep him from cheating _too_ much on their meal plan but the Sheriff wasn’t afraid of using his badge to keep the Beacon Hills baristas from overloading his son on stimulants as some caffeine was good for helping with Stiles's ADHD but too much was very-not-good – as he waited for Scott to show up, shifting anxiously from foot-to-foot as he waited for his best-friend to show up after the clusterfuck of the night before.

Scott and Stiles didn’t share many classes making their meet-ups before and after school and at lunch key bro-times.

It wasn’t Scott’s fault by any means.

His bro was great, awesome even, at lots of things but when it came to school…he struggled with maths and hard sciences sometimes, which kept him from participating in the same Advanced Placement classes that filled the majority of Stiles’s school life since one of the requirements for participating in the AP program was an overall GPA maintenance not just in specific classes like Scott’s breezing through English.

That didn’t stop Stiles from helping him with his classes though, except in Spanish the cheater.

Thanks to his mom being fluently bilingual in Spanish, Scott had been raised from the cradle speaking it much like Claudia had taught Stiles Welsh, Noah Polish and German hand-in-hand with English.

Scott took the easy A for his foreign language requirement, an option Stiles didn’t have since for whatever fucked up rationale Beacon Hills High School offered Spanish, Latin, French, and Chinese to their students.

Stiles would be the first person to admit that he often made life choices out of sheer spite and sass.

He took Latin.

Because _Latin_ that’s why.

As a result, instead of having the option of taking two classes with his best-bro, they only shared gym and the same lunch period without which Stiles would have been forced to employ a weapon of mass-manipulation – also known as Scott’s puppy-dog-eyes-of- _doom_ – on the registrar to get their schedules fixed.

Watching the clock on his phone as he jumped between Facebook-Twitter-Instagram-Tumblr-Angry Birds and back, slurping at his latte, it was only knowing how much his dad would kill-him-dead if he ruined his phone that kept him from flinging up his hands in relief once he caught sight of Scott coming.

He frowned lightning quick.

Scott was still pretty far out.

Even with his contacts in Stiles couldn’t remember ever seeing that well before but he shrugged it off with a wince as he felt a foreboding pinch just behind his eyes.  Fuck.  He _did not_ need a migraine today.

Considering his hit-and-miss ability to pay attention to shit, including his own body screaming at him, that probably just meant he’d never _noticed_ and taken note of it before it progressed enough to stop.  Tucking his phone away, he dug out his school-approved and Individual Education Plan allowed sunglasses.  Headaches.  Just one of the delightful side-effects of Adderall in some kids that Stiles struggled with and had in the past led to lowering his dosage.  Like having appetite problems, insomnia, or just plain forgetting to eat and random spurts of dizziness weren’t enough on their own, when the headaches happened more than four times a week or progressed into full-blown migraines Stiles got to go back through the experience of adjusting his meds… _again._

At least he wasn’t having a massive bout of aggression or hallucinating yet, so there was that to look forward to if the headache _was_ a harbinger of a med or dosage change if his early struggles with adapting to ADHD meds was any sign or the issues he’d run into over the last four years since meant anything.

Stiles waited with ever-shredding patience as Scotty _finally_ arrived at the school, pouncing on him with an unrelenting stream-of-consciousness babble before the other teen could even lock up his bike let alone make it into the warmth of the school building.

“Scotty, bro, my dude,” Stiles flailed his empty hand having put away his phone before attacking.  “How do you feel?  Do you feel okay?  I feel pretty good.  Well.  Considering.”  He pondered that for a split-second, distinctly remembering the piercing-rending sensation of being bit and the difficulties the wound had led to with walking.  “Yeah.  I’ma go with pretty good considering.  You?  Dad looked like shit this morning, didn’t come home until after I passed out.  _That_ took freaking _forever_ to do, man.  First day back at school Scotty, you ready for this…”

Scott knew from experience that if he didn’t stop Stiles he’d just keep going until he wound down which sometimes wasn’t a problem, but he’d rather not be tardy to class on the first day back all the same.

“Still freaked man.”  He broke into Stiles’s stream-of-consciousness, the speed of which revealing how shaken the other boy still was since the Starbucks cup clearly read half-caf on the side just over one long-fingered grip.  “And yeah,” he ruffled one hand through his hair, “I guess I feel pretty good.  Not in too much pain.”

“How’s the bite look?”  Stiles asked, eyes sharp and reaching out to tug lightly on the hem of Scott’s shirt.  “Mine looked a _lot_ better this morning without, you know, your oh-so-calm commentary and all the gross blood that kinda made me want to puke.”

Or faint but fainting wasn’t going to help him keep his man-card.

Puking was perfectly acceptable.

“Yeah, it looks better.”  Scott told him, fobbing his intense best-friend off as best as he could.  “Really don’t want to talk about it, Stiles.  Kinda just want to forget the whole thing happened.”

“Dude, really?”  Stiles frowned, honestly confused then looked around and lowered his voice.  “Some chick was _torn in half_ in the preserve then we run into a big-ass _thing_ that looked perfectly capable of _tearing someone in half_.  It didn’t look normal either.”  He squinted his eyes, feeling a spate of research-fu coming on.  “No,” he decided, “definitely not normal.  Hey, you know animals.”

“Yes, Stiles.”  Scott sighed, already caving to the reality that he wasn’t going to be able to pawn Stiles off until the warning bell rang and they had to split off, subtlety herding his best-bro towards the junction that divided the hall with the English classes – Scott’s version of early morning hell – and the social studies classes that met the science hall on the other end to the left and the math classes to the right, or some of them anyway.  “I know animals.  Kinda.  I do work at a vet.”

“Well?”  Stiles prompted with no-little exasperation.  That _thing_ was roaming the woods.  The woods where his dad and dozens of other law enforcement and volunteers were looking for a body.  Why wasn’t Scott understanding that and being helpful?  Or at least a little concern would be nice.  “What kind of bites did they look like?”

Now it was Scott’s turn to frown, thinking of the bites he’d studied and slap-dash-doctored the night before.

“Like a dog I guess.”

Stiles snorted.  That wasn’t any _dog_ that attacked them.

“Or a wolf, maybe.”  He added at the _look_ Stiles leveled his way, his friend already shaking his head.

“Wolves haven’t been native to California since the 60’s.”  Stiles told him.  “And with red eyes it’d have to somehow be a wolf with albinism but a fantastically black coat.  Not statistically likely.”

“How do you know that?”  Scott blinked.

“Google-Wiki research spirals for AP Bio last year.”  Stiles shrugged with a sigh then clapped one hand on Scott’s shoulder.  “Anyway, class, but think about it Scott.  Whatever that thing was, it _wasn’t_ normal.”

Scott nodded, punching Stiles lightly on his non-injured shoulder, at least he thought since the taller boy wasn’t moving like one of them hurt, willing to concede that much at least.

No animal he’d ever heard of behaved the way that thing had.

Not naturally.

Maybe it was sick or something…he shook his head.

He’d mention it to Stiles, maybe that would be enough to distract the other boy from an Adderall and Monster fueled Google-Wiki spiral.

Though on the plus side he didn’t see Stiles wandering through the woods in search of a dead body again soon.

Small victory given the circumstances, but he’d take it.

…

Stiles’s headache didn’t abate or slow down at all even with sunglasses, a dose of Excedrin Migraine that the nurse had on hand for Stiles along with a couple other peripheral meds to help _navigate his symptoms_ according to his IEP, and the bottle of Mountain Dew he’d pounded for lunch while picking absently at some veggie sticks from the salad bar when all the other options like the sloppy joe Scotty packed away and then plucked off of Stiles’s tray after checking with him made his stomach churn from a combination of the unappetizing sight that looked like it was in high-def even with the sunglasses and the _stench_.

Or maybe that was listening to Scott croon _odes_ about the new girl during the entire lunch period…either way, lack of appetite was definitely a problem.

And it was fucked up.

Granted, some of his issues could be passed off as lack of sleep or a side-effect of his massively-bad headache but something was telling him that wasn’t quite _right_.

He’d never had sudden changes in vision for one and having his eyesight go foggy-clear- _awesome_ and back was distracting as _shit_ and sending him into a _oh-shit-I-have-frontotemporal-dementia_  spiral even as he hid his increasing panic from Scott during lunch and managed to haul himself through his classes even if he was markedly calmer – or just more miserable – than normal though all his teachers, including douche-canoe Harris who taught AP Chemistry, noted the sunglasses and let him be if possible.

Only a serious startle-response kept him from being beaned in the head by a basketball in gym even riding the bleachers thanks to his headache though the Coach Finstock who taught economics – he’d made him laugh his _ass_ off last year with his paper on the History of the Male Circumcision – and a couple hours of gym still made him walk laps with the rest of the class during warm ups.

It also had him falling on his ass but with fighting off a throbbing-piercing pain behind his eyes and coasting up the front of his head towards the crown, he’d take a busted ass and wounded pride over making that shit any worse.

Needless to say, by the time he met up with Scotty in the boys’ locker room after school, the wave of stench once again having his stomach churning as he panted breaths through his mouth – Scott had one last practice before the try-outs the next day – and Stiles could take out his contacts, not needing help seeing distances when all he’d be doing was swimming laps today, it was with an epic-level of relief when combined with a quick pounding of water on the back of his neck under the shower head to rinse off before hitting the pool.

At least Lahey wasn’t the swimming and diving coach anymore.

From what he’d heard from some of the deputies, _that guy_ had been a massive dick and would have him doing high dives or some shit if he asked for an easy practice while recovering from an all-day headache.

Though that didn’t stop him from spluttering when he ripped off his damp bandage on his leg to change and wrap it in cling-wrap to protect the open wound to see… _nothing_.

“Scotty?”  He called weakly, his bro rounding the bank of lockers to come stare in shock when he saw – or rather didn’t see – what was on Stiles’s leg.  Looking up, amber eyes wide and dazed with shock, Stiles had to check.  “I’m not hallucinating, am I Scotty?”  He asked, voiced hushed but zipping at high speed with panic.  “There _was_ a bite on my leg…wasn’t there?”

“Ye-yeah.”  Scott stuttered, shaking his head.  “What the hell, man?”

The _that’s not normal_ went without saying and spurred the stunned Stiles into action, his best-friend darting towards Scott in his tiny swim-team trunks with his cap and goggles resting on his head and a towel over his shoulder, not stumbling despite his flip-flops often being the culprit behind Stiles careening into more than one corner, locker bank, and doorway.  Grabbing hold of the edge of Scott’s lacrosse practice jersey, Stiles tugged it up, snagged the other boy’s bandage and ripped it clean away in a fluid motion.  Ignoring Scott’s flailing, usually a behavior more likely to come from Stiles, he ran his free hand down his best-bro’s side.

“Look, Scotty, _look_.”  He hissed softly as other boys started to tumble into the locker room to prep for the trio of practices going on: lacrosse, basketball, and swim/dive team.  “Yours is gone too!”

“Huh?”  Taking his jersey out of Stiles’s firm grasp with a sharp pull, he bent and twisted a bit to get a clear look at his side.  “What the…”

Stiles’s lips firmed mulishly, staring Scott down.

“We’re talking about this.”  He decided then and there, pointing fiercely at Scott, well acquainted with his bullheaded ability to ignore shit he didn’t want to talk about or acknowledge.  Like that his ass of a bio father had a drinking problem and had smacked him when they were eleven.  Or that said smack was the reason Mama McCall kicked him to the curb.  Or that Scott’s asthma was going to always be a roadblock to the other boy making first-line at lacrosse.  Stubborn, thy name was Scott McCall.

“Go to practice, Stiles.”  Scott ordered the other teen, turning and walking away, snapping up his lacrosse gear and storming out of the locker room.

Stiles scowled at Scott’s retreating back as he started calculating.

Scott had bought himself a reprieve with how packed both of their Mondays were, nothing more.

But tomorrow…

Oh yeah.

Tomorrow it was on.

And Stiles now had a whole new data set to add to his Google-fu after he got back from San Fran and Kendo club.

…

Weird shit that happened after the bite, a list by Stiles Stilinski:

  1. The bite was noticeably improved in a handful of hours.
  2. His vision would flip between awesome-foggy-regular.
  3. He started the day with a headache behind his eyes that progressed to just-under migraine levels of discomfort despite taking his meds, going through his routine, and having a full breakfast.
  4. The. Smells.
  5. Did he say improved? Try _healed_ in less than twenty-four hours.
  6. He left out his contacts, able to drive without them and thinking it might help with the ongoing headache…only he forgot to put them back in to drive to San Francisco. He didn’t notice that he was seeing just fine – better than fine, _great_ actually – without them until he went to take them out before bed and, hey, no contact lenses on his eyeballs.
  7. Which leads to: all the vision. Not night vision though.  That would’ve been cool.  Just perfect, or better-than-perfect even, in general.
  8. Scott said he heard a phone ring in the _parking lot_ while sitting in English then _heard the conversation_ leading to:
  9. All the Sounds.
  10. After Stiles’s headache wearing gradually away after school, it started right back up _again_ when Stiles arrived for first period on Tuesday.



…

Reviewing his list as he typed furiously into his note app on his phone while he waited to ambush Scott before school – seriously, this _can’t_ just be him, he can’t be going crazy, this can’t be frontotemporal dementia, his dad had him tested for the genetic markers after…after Mom – to see if anymore weird shit happened to Scott that the other boy hadn’t told him in the wake of _Allison_.

Stiles had finally gotten her name right, given that apparently she ended up getting sucked into the word of the illustrious and perfect Ms. Lydia Martin, his goddess and reason for existence, and Scott had needed to whine.

If anything, Allison ending up with the other beautiful kids made a certain kind of cosmic sense to Stiles.

Though he could’ve done without the renewed determination it had lit in Scott’s belly to make first-line in lacrosse, especially since the preliminary research Stiles had managed pointed towards a realization that was very Twilight Zone and Occam’s Razor all at once.

Or to quote his man Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:

_“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”_

Two days ago, what Stiles was thinking would have been firmly in the impossible camp, but it all cycled back to evidence.  Healing.  Improved senses.  Those two alone pointed towards all kinds of things but when he added the bites and that it wasn’t just _him_ experiencing it – if it was he’d have to hit up his behavior therapist for a MRI and a CT scan to eliminate the ever-looming frontotemporal dementia fear – but Scott as well, short of long-lasting hallucinogens transmitted via bite to the bloodstream all he had left was shit that should be impossible.

Plus…what he was thinking had roots in cultures all over the world not just pop culture or gothic horror.

 _That_ had been a surprise and something he’d found after bumping into one of the monks at the Buddhist center who allowed his Kendo club to practice there once a week.

After three years of practicing at the Center, he knew most of the monks and practitioners on sight, but this guy was new – also, _really, really_ old.

With a smooth tanned head, crepe-wrinkled skin, and eyes that shined like black coals in his ancient face, the monk had almost seemed to come out of nowhere as Stiles was walking to his dad’s car – _not_ the cruiser which would surprise most of the residents of Beacon Hills but the bland Ford Focus he’d bought when Stiles started needing ferrying to San Francisco first for his ADHD evals and counseling then for Kendo – rubbing one hand over his forehead, exhausted from battling the at-the-time-absent headache all day and waving goodbye to some of the other _kenshi_.

Stiles had quickly apologized and given the aged monk a short bow, all of which the man had watched with a sly smile on his face and a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

Then he’d said something in return, which had given Stiles a definite direction for his pre-bed Googling.

The monk had tilted his head then:

 _“It is of no concern, senri-kun.  I thought you a kitsune or_ _ōkami but a senri-cub is of no danger to the Temple.  Oyasuminasai.”_

Senri.

Kitsune.

Ōkami.

Those three all had two things in common after his initial Wikipedia browse: they were creatures from Eastern folklore (Senri – Chinese, Kitsune and Okami – Japanese) and more importantly: they were shapeshifters.

Which really…put a whole new spin on what the creature was that attacked him and Scott in the preserve especially since the most common shapeshifters in Western folklore were _werewolves_ who could both heal from most wounds _and_ were often depicted as being virulently contagious via _bite_.

It also scared the shit out of him and he _really_ needed someone to tell him he wasn’t crazy but lacking that he’d do all the research he could and _fuck them anyway._

Scott winced when he climbed off his bike in front of the school and saw Stiles in sunglasses for the second day in a row.

Freaky shit aside, it was _not_ a good omen for the rest of the semester if Stiles had to start things off with wacked-out crap happening – even if Stiles was a solid 50% at fault, but not more then that since Scott could have said no and talked him down if he _really_ wanted to but Stiles hadn’t been the only one bored, which, hindsight – _plus_ what were likely issues with his meds but Stiles would automatically jump to frontotemporal dementia since, ya know, his mom and stuff.

“C’mon bro.”  Scott told him, slinging an arm around wide, if thin, shoulders.  “We can talk about what _you_ want to talk about after our practices.  Obsessing over shit isn’t good for you when you’re having headaches.”

“Stress and shit, I know.”  Stiles blew out a breath, shaking his head.

“Only one of us can be freaked at a time, that’s the rule.”  Scott said firmly.  “I’ll take the shift during school if you promise to hold off until after, deal?”

“Deal, Scotty.”  Stiles nodded.  “You’re the best bro.”

“No problem.  Hey, if you’re really crazy this time can I have your PSP?”

“What?  No!  You ass-nugget…”

…

 


	2. Chapter 2

** Apex Predators **

_Author’s Note: Some ideas have crept in from outside TW canon for the background shifter universe I’ve got going on.  If you want to know more about it, I’ve taken some ideas heavily from Shelly Laurenston’s shifter urban fantasy/romance novels that follow various packs/prides/families of modern-day shifters.  I’m also going to be including some references to the Book of Lore and some of the species from Kresley Cole’s Immortals After Dark series, so there’s that too.  Much love to these amazing ladies and writers who’ve created such intricate and immersive worlds!_

**Chapter Two: Withdrawal with a side of Werewolves**

On the bright side, Stiles’s headache cut out much faster on Tuesday.

Though he was at least seventy/thirty on it being quicker due to him skipping on his contacts and not forcing his eyes to try and adjust to a prescription they _magically didn’t need_ _anymore_.

Meanwhile, across town at the sheriff’s department, his Dad was facing a headache of his own in the form of a missing person’s report being lodged that he feared had to do with the body discovered in the woods…though he’d had no idea that Laura Hale had even arrived in town.

…

Derek Hale had always intended to come back to Beacon Hills.

He wouldn’t have gotten the college degree he had if not.

But not like this.

Never like this.

Laura hadn’t even _told him_ she was going or why, just a text message that she’d be out of town for a while and to hit up the Van Holtz pack if there was an emergency in the meantime since of the two wolf packs that ran the wolf shifter scene in New York the Van Holtz’s were at least a _predictable_ level of crazy unlike the Smiths who were just crazy.

Smart, cunning, and ruthless…but also crazy.

It was only his academic advisor all-but-throwing him head-first at a shifter-friendly therapist, said advisor being married to a kitsune, that kept Derek from spiraling down to Smith-Pack levels of psycho and trauma after… _everything_ that brought him and his sister to New York in the first place.

His therapist had helped Derek cope even if she’d made no real headway into Derek forgiving himself.

He’d lost his entire pack because he was an idiot led around by his dick.

Issues of age aside, he couldn’t forgive himself.

Not for that.

Still, it’d taken him halfway through his degree program to realize that he’d picked it not strictly because he enjoyed it – though he did, that was never in dispute – but because he was _always_ planning on returning to Beacon Hills even if Laura acted like she was allergic to even the _mention_ of anything further west than Chicago despite her traveling for her job in sports medicine.

Then on Sunday night he was woken from a sound sleep by the last true pack-bond he had snapping inside his chest.

Laura had cut his bond to Peter when she’d cut their uncle from the pack.

It was only after a late-night rush to Laura’s apartment in Queens that he’d found the route mapped out on her Google Maps.

His sister had finally gone home though he had no idea _why_ when she’d resisted all attempts by Derek to even call and check on Peter in the past, let alone her reaction when he’d suggested they visit since all signs pointed to the Argents having cleared out after they’d run for New York and left Peter behind.

Apparently, a single comatose Omega wolf wasn’t worth their presence or even the decency of finishing what they’d done to him.

The first flight out from LaGuardia had him landing Monday evening and taking a long-ass cab ride to the motel he’d found on the pack – some pack with only two of them – credit card online information.

Her car had been there.

But not her.

Talking the clerk into handing over a keycard to Laura’s room had been easy thanks to a fifty-dollar bill.

Walking into the room and finding only the fading scent of his sister that was at least a day old was one of the hardest things he’d done in his life.

Grief told him to go searching for her.

Sense told him to wait.

He didn’t know who killed her or why and was way too fucking exhausted, mentally and emotionally, to try and make sense of her notes scribbled on the motel stationary or try and break into her laptop.

She never bothered changing the password on the desktop at her apartment, but her laptop was another story since it was where she kept her patient information.

Picking up Laura’s favorite football jersey that she wore to bed – and had since their Dad had given it to her when she was twelve – Derek curled into a ball on the untouched second bed in the room and prayed when he woke up it’d all been just another fucked up nightmare from a tortured conscience.

No such luck since the next morning just found the place where Laura’s bond used to be growing colder and the scent continuing to fade in the room as Derek dragged himself through cleaning up and dressing, nabbing the keys to Laura’s Camaro from the desk next to her laptop.

Wherever she’d gone – and why – she’d gone on foot.

With the rain in the night, tracking her would likely be useless though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

First, however, he had to go to the sheriff’s department and report her missing before trying to track her movements since she showed up in Beacon Hills, not the least of which was figuring out what the fuck had gotten her out here in the first place considering her feelings regarding the place they’d both lost – or left – so much.

Only the gnawing pain in his stomach had Derek running through the Starbucks’ drive-through for a breakfast sandwich, egg bites, and a cup of coffee hoping that the hot beverage would help steady his nerves for what was to come.  Bolting down the food, he pulled into the visitor parking at the sheriff’s department.  Clenching and unclenching his hands he repeated his family’s mantra:

_Alpha.  Beta.  Omega._

_Any can rise._

_Any can fall._

_Alpha.  Beta.  Omega._

Then climbed from the modern black muscle car, locking it behind him and setting the alarm, then marched into the sheriff’s department and spoke to the deputy manning the reception desk like he was going to his own funeral instead of starting the process that he already knew would inevitably lead to Laura’s.

“I, uh,” he stuttered a bit then pushed his ever-present grief down and continued.  “I need to report a missing person.”

“Alright.”  Tara dragged her eyes over the hunk of sad-eyed man that had marched himself in the door like he was walking up a gallows.  She thought he looked familiar but couldn’t quite place it.  “Your name?”

“Derek Hale.”

Almost like magic, everyone in ear-shot hushed in the department that a moment prior was bustling with early-morning mania, letting his name carry clear through the place and drawing the sheriff himself from where he was talking to a liaison from the State Police.

“Derek Hale?”  Noah Stilinski moved quickly over to snatch up the young man before someone else could take the interview, a sinking feeling already lodged in his stomach for the news he’d have to give him.

“Yes, sir, I don’t know if you remember me…”  Derek shuffled a bit, anxious with all the eyes on them.

“Course I do, son.”  Noah nodded, holding out his hand for a shake then opening his arms, one gesturing towards his office and the other curving in a semi-protective motion around the air at Derek’s back.  “Tara, I’ll be in my office.”

“I’ll hold any calls, Sheriff.”  Tara told him, sorrow for Hale ripe in her eyes but clear from her face and voice.

Came in to report his sister missing and was gonna find out she was dead.

Laura and Derek Hale might have grown from the young people they’d been when they ran from Beacon Hills, but six years wasn’t enough for the Sheriff to have forgotten them.

When they found the second half of poor Laura, he’d identified her himself.

Now he had to tell a guy that’d lost almost all his family that his sister was gone too.

Jesus.

If Tara didn’t know better, she’d think the poor kid was cursed.

In the sheriff’s office, Derek sat uneasily on the thin chair cushion, Stilinski sitting and turning the second chair in front of his desk to face him, the chemosignals Derek was getting off of him screaming of resignation, worry, and more than a hint of grief.

Oh.

They’ve already found her.

“What brought you in today, Derek?”  The sheriff prompted him, stalling for a bit of time.  He’d known he was going to have to track the young man down and wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest.  He hated having to inform families of the worst only second to crimes involving children.

“I hadn’t heard from Laura in five or six days.”  Derek explained, rubbing his palms against the rough weave of his jeans.  “I had a bad feeling I guess about this trip she went on so I went to her apartment and found out she’d come back here.  Took the first flight out, figured whatever brought her here she might need help.”

“Why’d you think that?”

“Whenever I mentioned coming back, even just in passing, to visit Peter, she’d…”  Derek lifted one hand and tugged sharply at his hair, the brief pain grounding him.  “She’d shut down.  If she was coming here and didn’t tell me I figured it was something bad.  That Peter…”

Noah shook his head, able to relieve Derek’s worry on that account at least.

“Your uncle is fine as far as I know.  Still comatose: no change.”

“Thanks.”  Derek blew out a breath.  “That…that helps.”

“Son, there’s no good way to tell you this…”  Noah began only to get cut off by a teary-eyed Derek.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”  Noah bit the bullet and stopped dragging it out, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.  “We found her remains in the preserve, I identified her myself late last night.”

“God.”  Derek buried his head in his hands.  He knew.  He knew but still… _hearing_ it was somehow harder than all the knowledge in the world.  That was…  That was confirmation.  He was alone.  Someone had finally finished the job Kate began.  “God, what, uh, what happened?”

“We’re just starting to figure that out, son.”  Noah told him, clasping him firmly on his shoulder.  “And I know it’s rough but since you’re here I’m going to have to ask you some questions, ok?”

“Yeah.”  Derek nodded, wiping his face as if he’d been crying though no tears had been spilled.  “Yeah, whatever you need.”

“When did you get into town, Derek?”  Noah asked, grabbing a pad of paper and jotting a few notes at the top regarding the informal interview and some impressions and information he’d already gathered.

“Last night.”  Derek told him, voice rough, already digging out his receipt from the cab company and the boarding pass from his flight, knowing they’d need it.  “Here.”

Noah reviewed the few pieces of paper and then set them aside.

“That’s good, that’ll help.”  He praised the younger man.  “Is there anyone in New York that can confirm when you and/or Laura left?”

“She, ah,” Derek shifted in place.  “Laura always let her super know when she’d be leaving on a road trip so he could collect her mail and stuff.  That would’ve been on the fourth or maybe even late on the third.  My boss at the Arborist Foundation can confirm when I left work on Friday the seventh.”

Noah jotted down the names and numbers Derek supplied which with credit card statements for Laura’s road trip and airport check-ins for Derek should clear the young man even though Noah knew grief well enough when he saw it to think better than that Derek would’ve killed his sister.

“I found her motel off of our joint credit card we share, when I got there last night it didn’t look like she’d been in, in a while, had left her Camaro in the lot.”

“We’ll have to give the car a once-over.”  Noah told him, pausing.  “Did you drive it over or take another cab?”

“Drove it.”  Derek shifted, knowing that wouldn’t look great but would probably be put down to worry and not thinking straight.

“Well, while it’s here I can have the techs inspect it while you come back with me to the motel with a crime scene unit to see if there’s evidence to be had there.”  Noah shook his head.  “Most likely nothing useful but I like to be thorough.”

“Of course, Sheriff.”  Derek nodded, whatever you need.

“Right.”  Noah sighed, putting the interview pad aside.  “On another note, once you’ve been officially cleared we’ll have to talk about some things.”

“Like what?”  Derek frowned, confused.

“She must’ve not told you.”  Noah looked at him with clear sympathy.  “Son, Laura put me in charge of the Hale Trust and your uncle’s care before she left and never got back in contact with me in the six years since.  With her death you become eligible to take over the Trust and step-in as Peter’s power of attorney.”

“God.”  Derek scrubbed his hands over his face and then linked them behind his head, holding them there for a long moment.  “She didn’t…she never mentioned…”

“Derek.”  Noah stood then lowered himself into a hunch looking at the grieving young man, hands resting lightly on his shoulders despite the arm positioning that made it a bit awkward.  “When I talked to your sister after the fire, I got the impression she wanted to run as far and as fast as she could and forget there was ever a place called Beacon Hills on the map.  It honestly is surprising that she kept the Hale name.”

Derek huffed a bitter laugh.

Him and Derek both.

“This is too much.”  He admitted.  “I can’t…”

“Hey, that’s okay.”  Noah told him then stood once more.  “I’ll get a couple of my deputies on running down those confirmations to clear you and help put together a time line for Laura’s trip, plus a couple techs to give her car a once-over.  You sit, I’ll bring you some coffee that’s as hot and bitter as a tarpit, then – when you’re ready – we’ll go back over to the motel and clear out your things while crime-scene does their thing.”

“Huh?”  That last bit boggled him.

Noah arched a brow.

“You don’t think I’m going to leave you living out at that rat-trap do you?”  He scoffed.  “Your mother would rise from the grave and rake me over the coals.  You’ll stay with me until things are…settled.  The guest room will be a bit dusty but worlds better than catching something _itchy_ from staying at that motel.”

With that, the sheriff strode from the room leaving Derek with the distinct impression that he’d been railroaded but not having the energy or give-a-fuck to fight him on it when he figured it wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good anyway.

…

Stiles made it through the school day hanging onto the promise that it’d be _his_ turn to freak out later once Scott was done with his lacrosse try-outs, even if watching his buddy – eyebrows raised at the nearly _miraculous_ performance he was putting on on the field – during the last bit of it after showering, his swimming/diving team letting out earlier than lacrosse thanks to try-outs always taking longer than a regular practice.

Groaning under his breath as he watched Scott do a _fucking backflip_ to make a score, Stiles restrained his need to bash his head into the metal bleacher railing only through sheer determination since any sign of how _freaked out_ Stiles was by Scott’s showy display would only draw _even more_ attention. Attention that if Stiles was right they didn't need.

Stiles would be the first person to admit that he was lost and really didn’t know shit about what was happening beyond a rough idea, one thing he was dead-certain of was that if what was happening was actually _happening_ then drawing attention was probably the worst thing he or Scott could do.

Stories about anything, and he couldn’t believe he was even thinking the word, _supernatural_ always went hand-in-hand with people who _hunted_ the supernatural.

Always.

If one was truth – at least partially – then ipso facto so was the other.

Fuck.

Stiles sat hard on the cold metal bleacher, pulling out his phone to work his way through some more webpages and taking notes on another app while the lacrosse players finished try-outs, only half-hearing Finstock both making Scotty first-line and co-captain as he focused.

He had to figure this out.

He _had to_.

He couldn’t lose Scotty because of this.

Worse.

He couldn’t let his dad lose his son to it.

That would kill him quicker than any double-double with cheese habit.

Another fact perked up in his brain as pieces of the puzzle started to slot together and new connections between information sprang to life.

Animal deaths on the rise, plus a dead body in the preserve…

Fuck fuck _fuck_.

If there was some kind of hunters or slayers or whatever of the things that went bump in the night they might _already be on their way_ thanks to the bastard that bit him and Scotty.

Or…

He gulped.

Or they might already be in town.

Shit.

He _really_ had to get a handle on this and get Scotty under control before one or both of them ended up dead either to the werewolf – or whatever monster it was really – in the woods or the people who were sure to come hunting it finding them instead.

Moving on autopilot, Stiles made his way to wait at his Jeep while still nose-deep in his phone when the try-outs officially broke up, vetting and discarding information while saving some other tidbits for later consideration while he waited for Scotty so they could mutually freak out over whatever was going on with them before he had to take Scott to work.

Setting his phone on the Jeep dash as an ecstatic Scott bounced outside beaming, Stiles gave him a grin and a congratulatory hug as the other boy announced what Stiles already knew: first-line and co-captain, then helped him get his bike in the back of the rig so they could get out of there and talk.

Though whether he’d get anything coherent out of his crooked-jawed best-friend between Scott’s turn of fortune in lacrosse and gushing over Allison he wasn’t willing to bet on.

Stiles drove almost in a trance as he hummed and nodded at the right counterpoints to Scott’s rambling, pulling into the animal clinic’s parking lot and killing Roscoe’s engine before turning towards Scott and giving him a smirk before taking a turn at cutting his bro off for once instead of the other way around.

“That’s all great, Scotty.”  Stiles told him, being absolutely sincere but Scott _did_ have a tendency to repeat himself where at least Stiles’s ramblings tended to go off on tangents but they didn’t get repetitive unless his audience asked for clarification on a point.  “But any chance in that Allison-and-Lacrosse-filled brain of yours you’ve had a chance to think about _what the fuck is going on with us_?”

Scott slumped in place, as if someone had let all the air out of him.

“I’ve mostly tried to ignore the weird shit.”  He admitted sheepishly.  “Like smelling the mint-mojito gum in your pocket all during lunch until it bugged you enough to throw it away.”

“Or your sudden ability to heal from a deep bite wound or managing to land co-captain on the varsity lacrosse team despite being an asthmatic bench-warmer up until yesterday?”

Rubbing one hand over his messy brown hair, Scott ducked his head.

“Shit, bro.”  Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back a recurrence of his earlier headache though this one brought on solely by Scott’s ability to be willfully oblivious and stubborn with it.  “I’m going to say it: we didn’t imagine that monster in the woods.  We didn’t imagine the bites.  We _didn’t imagine_ them healing in less than a day and all the other weird shit that gone on with us since.  We didn’t – we aren’t – imagining it.  That makes it real.  If it’s real then we have to figure out how to handle it and what it means.”

“It’s been good though, right?”  Scott admitted after swallowing down the sense of shame that had hit him hard at Stiles’s words.  He knew how obsessively his bro worried about mental shit.  He knew why.  And if Stiles had let him he _still_ would’ve ignored everything about it until he couldn’t anymore.  “I mean…”

“Some of it, sure.”  Stiles blew out a heavy breath.  “But cause and effect Scotty.  Balance.  Upsides have downsides.  And if I’m right about what’s happening to us the downside is going to come with a side of fangs, bloodlust, lunar frenzy, and people trying to kill us.”

“Kill us?”  Scott yelped.  “What the fuck Stiles, why?”

“Because,” Stiles shrugged, looking away from the terrified-puppy gaze of his best friend.  “I’m pretty sure we’re turning into werewolves…or at least something like them.”

“Nope.”  Scott firmly shook his head after a long pause.  “No fucking way.  Stop joking, this is serious _shit_ Stiles.”

“I’m _being serious_ , Scott.”  Stiles bit out.  “You’re not the only one it’s happening to, remember?  Look.”  He brought up the list he’d put together and showed it to his friend.  “This is all the off, weird, or strange crap that I know’s happened to both of us since Sunday night.  I’ve checked it out – granted, still got a ton more research to do – but, yeah, I actually tend to think that anything that is as widespread as werewolf and/or shapeshifter lore has its roots in _something_ even if its as simple as a human contracting rabies or a dude with a really bad case of hirsutism…”

“Hirsutism?”

“Extreme or more than normal body hair growth.  Not the point.”  Stiles carried on despite the interruption.  “This isn’t a case of one legend infecting another culture through contamination and blending.  I’m talking about dozens – maybe hundreds – of cultures all with some form of a werewolf or shapeshifter mythos.  Sometimes it’s a curse, others it’s a demon, others it’s spirits or whatever, but it’s a massively engrained part of the human anthropological narrative, Scotty!  What if in this case the legends just were a bit more accurate in the curse portion than usual?  All the symptoms fit: the bite, the healing, the senses…”

“What about your headaches?”  Scott frowned, not wanting to buy into what Stiles was doing but he could tell Stiles, for all that this sounded like one of his pranks, was actually being serious.  “Shouldn’t those go away like my asthma if this…if this is it or something like it.”

“I have an idea about that, actually, that fits without me trying to make it fit.”  Stiles chewed on his lower lip.  “In some of the myths werewolves or whatever not just heal but things that effect humans don’t affect them.”

“Like Oz in Buffy.”  Scott nodded, having binged the show with his bro a time or ten.  “Tranqs had to be like horse tranquilizers to work on him.”

“Right.”  Stiles flailed his hands in excitement that Scott was at least being a _little_ open about the subject.  Honestly, it was better than he’d hoped for in his more pessimistic moments.  “ _If_ I’m right about the wolfy thing then my body could be, like, constantly going into a cycle of rejecting the Adderall and crap and then going through withdrawal so I’m like, getting all the symptoms I get when I have to adjust my dosage _plus_ withdrawal symptoms but in a short period of time.”  He nibbled on his lip once more.  “And today was a lot shorter time to go through it than yesterday was: a couple hours instead of most of the day _and_ it only started after I took my morning dose of Adderall both days.”

“Dude.”  Scott blinked.  “That’s fucked up.”

“Tell me about it.”  A snort.  “And it’s not like there’s anyone around to ask except Wolfy Crazy Killer in the woods.”

“Dude, suck.”  Scott threw himself back against the seat.  “This is going to be complicated as shit, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Scotty.”  Stiles gave a dark chuckle.  “You have no idea.  All that shit I told you was just a couple hours research.  I haven’t even gotten into the serious Google-fu yet.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“This blows.”

“Hey, bright side.”  Stiles smirked.  “Now that you’ve got yourself a dose of _animal magnetism_ I’m sure the lovely Allison won’t be able to help falling for your boyish charms and puppy-dog-eyes.”  He snickered.  Puppy-dog.  Never had _that_ been more appropriate.  “But real talk Scotty:” he sobered, “if you get a chance to ask her out, it can’t be Friday.”

“Not Friday.”  Scott nodded, frowning in confusion.  “Why not Friday?”

Stiles woke up his phone, showing the lock screen that he had set to a weather display – a rude but funny one but still – that included the moon phases.

“It’s the Full Moon.”

“Shit.”

“Uhuh.”

…

Shaking off the doom-and-gloom until he had evidence that it was warranted above and beyond his gut feeling that yes, it very-fucking-much is, Stiles drummed along to the beat of the radio as he drove home figuring he’d have enough time to knock out the newest batch of homework handed out before starting dinner.

Hmm…dinner.

Red meat sounded good but if he started pounding the steak and burgers his dad was going to know something was up since other than at school Stiles tried to stick to the same meal plan as his dad in solidarity.

That was going to take some maneuvering since it wasn’t like he needed to weight-gain (though it would be nice if he did regardless, if Adderall really _didn’t_ work for him anymore he’d be all about not having the weight issues keeping him one hundred and forty-seven pounds of bone, skin, and sarcasm) for a sport like wrestling or lacrosse.

If anything as a swimmer and runner, being slim was to his benefit as long as he had strength in the right areas.

Bounding out of Roscoe with his bag and keys, Stiles dropped his stuff upstairs in his room before darting back downstairs to figure out something packed with protein to satisfy his cravings without letting his dad in on his new – maybe – dietary requirements.

Peanut butter.

 _Perfect_.

His dad couldn’t stand the stuff, making it a relatively-safe higher-fat food to keep around, though even-so he still bought the natural and organic stuff just in case the sheriff’s urges got the better of his taste buds.

Slathering a piece of whole wheat bread with the creamy mixture, he rolled it over for a quick snack then pulled out his mom’s cookbook for ideas as he munched.

Tonight was taken care of with the chicken breasts thawing in a container in the fridge, Stiles always made a whole value-pack of the stuff at a time since he could use it for snacks, sandwiches, and topping salads if they didn’t get eaten before that.  Some brown rice and steamed vegetable mix from the freezer and done.  His dad would complain about both having vegetables _and_ having them steamed instead of sautéed with olive oil and turkey bacon – his dad never stopped bitching over the turkey bacon instead of the original pork but Stiles stood firm at home knowing that no matter what he tried or the guilt trips he laid down Dad would cheat when he was at work more often than not.

Just like the Sheriff pretended that half the time Stiles didn’t skip lunch at the cafeteria in favor of In-N-Out.

The little lies of omission that kept Casa de Stilinski running.

A quick Google on his phone after spotting a recipe his mom used to make in winter all the time and Stiles hooted and threw up a fist in victory before digging out the lentils, navy beans, and setting them out so he could rinse/soak them both later and a soup bone out of the freezer into the fridge and tomorrow was taken care of and he had time to work on homework, pinning diet research for before werewolf but after dinner with his dad.

An hour later had him knocking out the one-page essay for English on the overarcing themes of their required reading over the winter break _Flowers for Algernon_ , finishing off the Chem questions, and half-done with Trig before he rose with a stretch to pad back downstairs and start dinner.

His timing was impeccable as always.

No sooner had he pulled the sheet tray with the oven-fried (baked) chicken, fished the steamer baggy of vegetable mix from the microwave and dumped them in a serving bowl, and opened the rice cooker to let the steam escape than he heard the sound of his dad’s patrol car coming.

Granted…he heard it coming from several blocks away but he wasn’t thinking about that.

Nope.

He was going to enjoy dinner with his dad and not freak the fuck out.

Not about possible-maybe being a werewolf.

Not about what the fuck he’s going to do if his ADHD meds failed because of the above wolfiness.

None of it.

It was his plan.

His plan was on.

Or…at least it was.

Right up until he heard a second set of feet on the walk and the door open, his dad calling out to him and bringing a new and strange-familiar scent along with the strange-familiar stranger on his heels wearing a ridiculous leather jacket that was too thin for winter even in California and what looked like oddly expressive eyebrows.

“Ah, hey kid, there you are.”  Noah smiled at his quiet and lightly-frowning son who was focusing on the person behind him, Noah waving one hand towards him as he made the introduction.  Well, reintroduction he supposed, he knew that Stiles had probably met the older man before.  “This is Derek Hale, he’s going to be staying with us for a little while…”

“Guh.”  Stiles swallowed hard as his mind made the snap-quick connection about what was familiar about the stranger’s scent, which was different than his familiar looks.  Derek Hale looked a little like his uncle before the fire…and a _lot_ like his late father in the pictures situated in Peter’s room who his own dad had taken care to point out and match names and faces so Stiles could do the same sometimes for Peter.

Derek Hale didn’t _smell_ like Stiles’s memories of Peter.

Which, granted, weren’t as complete as they could be since he hadn’t been back since he’d been bitten but olfactory memory was one of the strongest memory centers of the brain.

No, not like that.

But he did, kinda, smell like the monster in the woods that bit him and his best-friend and changed their lives forever.

...

Looking back on it, Derek would later admit that January 11th of 2011 was in his top ten hardest and longest days of his life along with the 9th when he felt his bond to Laura snap, and the days both when his family died and several days later when Laura cut Peter from their pack before running with him to New York.

That said – January was the worst month _ever_ since it seemed, his parents’ anniversary aside, that the worst days of his life all fell in January.

 _This_ day however had begun with confirmation of his sister’s death, having to have an informal interview with the Sheriff to defray suspicion regarding his possible involvement in her death, having her car impounded – albeit temporarily – to be processed for evidence, and then having to watch as a crime scene unit crawled all over the motel room where Laura had spent the last days of her life and they took literally _all_ of her belongings to process and clear or hold.

Honestly, if it wasn’t for him being willing to go through his own personal bag – just a duffle he’d tossed some clothes and his phone and laptop into before heading to the airport to wait for his flight – with the Sheriff to confirm that there wasn’t anything belonging to Laura inside it he wouldn’t have even ended the day with anything to his name with him in Beacon Hills beyond the clothes on his back.

He was drooping, tired, and heart-worn when the Sheriff finally pulled up outside what had to be his home, the older man not willing to listen to any of Derek’s protests regarding getting another room or moving motels, obstinately refusing to rescind his offered hospitality and leaving Derek no choice but to accept it – whether he liked it or not.

It went without saying that he wasn’t at his best when he followed the Sheriff up the simple concrete-slab walk to the man’s front door.

Which, while not an excuse for failing to notice the scent trails all over the house no matter how new, did explain how a teenaged shifter managed to shock the hell out of him when he turned at his father’s introduction, nostrils flaring, and almost outed them both to said father when his eyes flared bright coppery gold only Derek’s timely question saved their asses an event he would’ve at least been partially prepared for if he’d noted the scent of young adult shifter – of some kind – before walking in the door and unknowingly, and rudely, infringed on said-shifter’s territory.

“Nice to meet you.”  Derek blurted how towards the teen.  “Hey Sheriff, where can I set this down?”

Noah turned – just missing his son’s eye-flare though he didn’t know it – and told gave him directions to the upstairs guest room between Noah’s master bedroom and the bathroom he’d be sharing with Stiles.

Derek whispered under his breath as he walked down the hall: _duck your head and calm down if you don’t want your Dad to know what you are._

Noah folded his arms over his chest waiting for their guest to climb the stairs before arching a brow at his still-stunned son who’d ducked his head and tightly closed his eyes for a long moment reciting a quick mantra from the Buddhist Temple he’d overheard at one point and stuck with him in his head, feeling the sense of _other_ that had risen with catching Derek’s scent fade back.

“What was that?”

“Uh…”  Stiles stuttered, flailing a bit.  “Surprised?”

“You asking or telling that we surprised you?”  Noah narrowed his eyes unimpressed with the weak answer from his kid.  “What’d you do?”

“What?  Nothing!”

“Uh huh.”  Noah scruffed the nails of his gun hand against his five o’clock shadow dusting his firm jaw.  “Keep it that way, yeah?  Dinner in five?”

“Uh yeah…”

“Good.  And Stiles?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Derek’s going through a really rough time.”  His dad pinned him with sober blue eyes.  “I want him to feel welcome here however long he decides to stay.  Can you do that, bud?”

“Yeah.”  Stiles sucked in a steadying breath.  “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good.”

…

Dinner was tasty if tense, Stiles even more of a spazz than normal thanks to his roiling levels of panic over whatever it was he was getting off of Derek Hale that had him smelling kinda-sorta-somewhat like the creature that attack him and his best bro.

He was smart enough and knew enough about pheromones from AP Biology last year to realize that Derek _wasn’t_ the creature from the woods.

But, and it was a big but, he had something _in common_ with it.

Stiles was banking on species since his eavesdropping on the sheriff’s department radio channels told him that the dead girl in the woods was _Laura Hale_ …and really that one-hundred-percent explained once Stiles remembered that what his dad meant about Derek going through a rough time.

He just hoped he hadn’t had to id his sister’s body.

That would’ve been a whole new world of suckage for the dude who’d already lost so much family.

The thought of which, naturally, had Stiles spiraling a bit down a rabbit-hole regarding how negatively that might impact _Peter_ , who was stable in his catatonic state but there was always the risk that something would trigger him and he’d go downhill.

Plus side though: thanks to having a guest for once his dad didn’t bitch about the healthy food on his plate.

Ha!  Take that heart disease!

His Dad smiled at hearing Scott made first-line and co-captain, telling Stiles to congratulate him for him, the three men keeping their talk over plates of food confined to simple, pleasant things, with Noah helping pack away the left overs after both Stiles and Derek had gone for second plates, even on the veggies which had the older man arching a brow over his garbage-disposal of a teenager eating seconds on greenery even if he did tend to push healthy food at his old man.

“Stiles, Derek and I have to talk about some things.”  He broached the subject once the food was away in the fridge and the dirty dishes rinsed and set in the dishwasher to run.  “Think you can avoid snooping for an hour or so?”

Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not _that_ bad, Dad.”  He protested.  “I do have some tact, dang…”

“Thanks, kiddo.”  Noah smiled at him softly, scrubbing one hand over his son’s growing-out buzz cut.  There was maybe a half-inch of hair at the moment but really it was Stiles’s own fault and hopefully a lesson for him to be more careful with trying to prank his Chemistry teacher or at least do a better job of getting out of the blast radius next time.  “Appreciate it.”

“Whatever.”  Stiles squirmed away from the hair-ruffle, spinning and shooting an anxious glance at a watchful and quiet Derek Hale before running up the stairs and somehow managing to not stumble.

Hey.

New weird entry on the list.

He’d managed to make it all the way through the day – so far – without tripping over his own feet and crashing into something.

Of course, it went without saying that Stiles didn’t have any real _need_ to snoop when he could hear their conversation perfectly well without it now, but given the shit he’d already disobeyed his dad on recently – like going to the preserve to look for a body and ending up some sort of supernatural creature – he gave them the privacy that had been requested, even if it wasn’t phrased that way, popping in his earbuds when he sank into his computer chair and queuing up his YouTube music video playlist for productivity music.

He had research to do.

…

The promised talk, Noah explaining about the Hale Trust, going over what Derek would need to do and who he’d need to contact to start the process of having access to his personal trust fund portion as well as to take up occupancy in one of the empty compound homes in the preserve or one of the rentals in town, not to mention to take over as Peter’s next-of-kin and go-to for his health care decisions.

He remembered the Compound, as the various properties that belong to the Hale Trust were known among their family.

Before the fire there’d been five of them: the main pack house where Derek had lived with his family that had burned down, the second’s home – the only one of the still-standing home that hadn’t been cleared out in the last six years given that Peter was still alive if not cognizant – where Peter had lived with his wife Juliana, two houses for pack members that had housed his other uncles and their families, and the pack cottage that was buried deep in the preserve and used when pack members needed a retreat.  Of the four still standing – Kate apparently content with the damage she’d done or just not wanting to risk the attention another fire would cause – Derek could take up residency in any of the three smaller homes once everything was cleared with the lawyers.  Given that he didn’t want to ramble in a home meant for a family – let alone one that had happy memories of his uncles, aunt, and cousins – he’d probably relocate to the cottage in time.

Eventually.

Once he figured out _what the fuck was going on_ and how the Stilinski kid had ended up a shifter.

Noah wasn’t.

And from what Derek could remember from before the fire, neither had Stiles been or Mrs. Stilinski before she passed away.

One thing he _did_ know however was that Stiles Stilinski, whoever had bitten him, wasn’t a wolf.

No, not at all.

For one, he didn’t _smell_ like a canine shifter.

For another…his eyes were wrong.

That hadn’t been the sickly yellow of an Omega wolf that Stiles had flashed on accident.

No, it was the rich gold of a feline shifter.

And didn’t _that_ just fucking figure?

Some asshole rogue Alpha managed to turn the Sheriff’s kid and not only did they not stick around, there was almost no scent of Alpha on the kid at all and the kid was _new_ , not even a single shift under his belt or Derek would eat the Camaro rims and all.

Given the situation and the automatic reaction the kid had had to scenting a wolf in his territory, because make no mistake that was _exactly_ how Stiles’s instincts saw his home, Derek couldn’t help but wonder if this rogue Alpha was the reason Derek’s number of existing family members had recently been halved.

Time would tell.

Shit, if he was lucky maybe the kid would know something about it.

Though given Derek’s history…he wasn’t going to hold his breath on that.

Either way, he was sure to find out.

Just as soon as the Sheriff finally dropped off to sleep.

…

Stiles had a system for his research binges whether they were restricted to the internet or other sources like books and magazines: if a fact was found in at least three different areas he would note it and consider it for further research.  It was a habit that was coming in handy for parsing through endless websites dedicated to all-things-werewolf, since it gave him some definite ideas to work with.  The problem he kept running into however was a lot of those ideas conflicted with or out-right contradicted each other.

From what he could find there were four different distinct subsets of werewolves or wereanimals:

  1. Cursed
  2. Enchanted
  3. Demonic/Possessed
  4. Shapeshifters



Cursed and/or enchanted werewolves looked like the oldest version of the legends going back to both the _Epic of Gilgamesh_ where the ancient king rejected a lover because she’d previously turned a lover into a wolf and ancient Greece with the tale of Lycaon who was cursed by Zeus.  Demonic or possessed beings being a type of wereanimal was more an Eastern philosophy like what the monk had called him, senri, being a type of leopard cat that supposedly if they lived long enough would gain the ability to shapeshift to human and then may or may not feed off of human souls.  Shapeshifting itself had roots in a lot of New World mythos though it was also present in Egyptian so that was cool.

All of which was _not fucking helpful_ when it came to actually figuring his circumstances out until he added his own data set to it that pointed towards the idea of were-whatevers as being cursed but…did it really?

Other than the ability to transmit the “curse” via bite he really wasn’t sure he bought that since _curse_ had a lot of negative connotations and from what he could tell, even if it came with Van Helsings chasing him down, none of what was happening to him or Scott seemed all that _bad_ beyond the initial terror of the attack and the underlying fear that they might turn into a creature like the monster in the woods.

The full moon now…that was prevalent in most of the werewolf legends making him so fucking happy he’d told Scott to not make plans for Friday.

Depending on what legend was closest it could be nothing at all or they could be forced into some kind of shift until dawn _or_ they could turn into ravening bloodthirsty fiends so, ya know, not really the kind of chance Stiles really wanted to take.

Stiles waited an hour then took out his earbuds when his nose picked up the scent of _Derek_ passing by his room, easily picking up the sounds of his dad downstairs in his home office and that of Hale in the guest room.

Deciding to try something out after Derek’s warning earlier, he asked: “Can you hear me, dude?”

“Don’t call me _dude_.”  Came the grouchy answer from the room on the other side of bathroom.  “We need to talk.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Obviously.”  He shot back drily.  “After my dad crashes?”

A grunt.

“Okay then…”  Another eye-roll.

Stiles had worn himself out on myth-checking and was bouncing between his diet research and knocking out the last homework assignment on his plate – having learned the hard way that doing it as soon as it was assigned was a much better idea for him and his brain than leaving it to stack up and freak him out – plus a thousand words on the big essay due next week for English on comparing _Flowers for Algernon_ with the previous book they’d read in AP English H.G. Wells’ _The Island of Dr. Moreau_ since both were sci-fi that delved into human experimentation, the last round of their sci-fi block before moving to a non-fiction book on the Nuremburg Trials that had a dual project with AP History.

All the while, he was tuned into the sounds of his dad moving around in his office or watching a rerun of _Modern Family_ – his dad _may_ have a massive crush on Sofia Vergara that Stiles really couldn’t blame him for – or Derek laying down and shifting every now and again on the guest-room bed, before his dad _finally_ climbed the stairs at nine.

And even that was a bit early since the last couple days had been a strain both with the search and then finding out that it was someone his dad _knew_ – at least a little – who’d been killed.

Long moments passed as the two waited through the sounds of Noah going through his nighttime routine, eventually settling into his bed with a sigh and shifts of the covers, then more long minutes ticked by until slow and even breaths told of the Sheriff slipping into sleep.

Stiles locked his computer and grabbed the notebook he’d moved his list-of-weird-shit to before deleting it off his phone, then added in the few notes regarding the myths he’d researched, flipping now to a blank page in preparation for the coming talk.

He still wasn’t _sure_ about anything that was going on.

What he _was_ sure about was that Derek Hale had answers.

And right now with as lost as he’d been since waking up yesterday morning, that was very much the bright light at the end of a dark and confusing tunnel.

He shifted knee jiggling and pen tapping out a ratatattat on the blank page of the notebook as Derek slid silently through his cracked open bedroom door, eyebrows lowered and nostrils flaring slightly before closing the door behind him with a soft _click_ , gesturing towards the speakers sitting on the desk meaningfully.

Stiles reached out and flipped his IPod to the meditation mix Tara kept trying to convince him would help him concentrate – _heh not likely_ – and turned it up to help muffle their voices if his dad woke back up.

“First question,” he jumped into the lingering silence between them.  “What _are_ we?”

“Shit.”  Derek rubbed his hands over his face and rested his back against the solid wood of the bedroom door, putting himself a bit turned to the side and in a more vulnerable position to the seated form of the clueless.  “I was afraid you were going to say something like that.  Who the hell bit you, kid?”

A jerk of one lean shoulder was his only answer, much to Derek’s mingled anger and disappointment.

Christ.

It was even worse than he thought.

Plus side: at least it wasn’t Laura that turned the kid and left him to deal with the aftermath.

Small blessings.

“Can you tell me anything about them?”  He pressed.  “At all?”

“It was dark and it all happened really fast.”  Stiles explained, flailing a bit helplessly in the wake of what he could only describe as disapproving eyebrows.  “Sunday night, my friend and I were in the preserve working our way back to my car when this, this _thing_ knocked me off my feet.  I fought it but it bit me anyway before going for my friend when he tried to run away.”

“Bit?”

“Yep.”  Stiles nodded mournfully.  “It gave me a better look besides the fucked up red eyes and white fangs but really the main impression I got was big, black, and that nothing about the face and body made _any_ sense.  My friend Scott, who was bitten too, said the bites kinda looked like a dog or a wolf but that thing looked _nothing_ like either.”

“Don’t freak.”  Derek warned the kid, waiting for him to nod, then shifted.

A sudden inhale, not quite a gasp, and wide amber eyes was the only sign of the kid’s startlement outside of the shock that laced through his scent and then he was shaking his head.

“No, not like that.”  He dismissed, tilting his head a bit to get a better look at Derek’s hands.  “Except for those claws maybe.  They are claws right?”  He pressed.  “Not talons or something, kinda would like to get the vocab down if I’m going to be, you know,” he waved a hand in the general direction of Derek’s, well, _everything_.

“Claws for me, yes.”  Derek allowed, shifting back.  “Maybe for your friend too, I can’t say until I meet him.”

“I don’t think I like what that implies.”  Stiles muttered, frowning as he wrote down: wolf-man, claws, fangs, fur, glowing blue eyes? In his notebook.  “About me anyway.”

“I’m a werewolf.”  Derek explained, even as he felt his ability to deal with people strain after all the peopling he’d done that day.  “Red eyes and claws – misshapen aside – that sounds like a werewolf too.  Shifters come in different species, all predatory.  In the States Bitten are considered afflicted with a Zometamorphic process that turns them into werewolves around ninety percent of the time – when they survive it.”

“When they survive it?”  Stiles gave a soft _eep_ as he realized what that meant.  “You mean…”

“Yeah.”  Derek told him softly with a downturn of his lips.  “When you’re bit by an alpha werewolf or another shifter capable of the Gift, you either turn or you die.  From what you’ve said, both you and your friend turned which is the way it normally goes with teens.”

“Adaptability and strength, right?”  Stiles made the leap easily.  “Our bodies are already in the process of changing – not as big of a one but still, applies – but we’re stronger, usually, than kids especially once we start puberty.”  He wrote a few things down for later research, including _zometamorphic_ since that wasn’t Latin roots but Greek to break it down, but just thinking about it had his mind managing to do a rough job anyway.  “Probably between fourteen and twenty-five is when you’d be most likely to survive.”

“About that.”  Derek agreed, folding his arms over his chest, impressed at the mind – almost despite himself – behind the machine-gun mouth and the flailing limbs.  “Ten percent of the time you get something other than a wolf, no one knows why.”

“But there’s theories aren’t there?”

“Yeah, everybody has one or two.”  Derek shrugged.  “Different families, different stories handed down.”

“What’s yours?”  Stiles prompted, holding in an eye roll since the guy was giving him decent information even if he acted like Stiles was pulling teeth in the process.  Or at least that’s what his eyebrows were saying.

“Family lore said the change reflected who you were inside if you’re bitten instead of born.”  Derek scowled, looking away.  “I think at least a part of it is prevalence.”

“Right,” Stiles actually followed that thought-trail down even if Derek didn’t finish it.  “Werewolves are everywhere.  Makes sense since a lot of other cultures have a pretty even mix of shapeshifter legends beyond wolves.”

Derek nodded.  “Overseas has a more even split between the different species but wolves are prolific in North America.”

“Which means what for me if I’m not a wolf?”  Stiles got back on point.  “How do you know, anyway?”

“Two things.”  Derek jerked a shoulder.  “Eyes and scent.”

“Okay…”  Stiles snorted then thought out loud.  “Scent I get.  You smell kinda familiar-strange like the one that bit me, that’s the wolf right?”  He didn’t wait for confirmation though Derek nodded anyway.  “Your eyes were bright blue, the other wolf’s were red, I’m guessing mine aren’t either?”

“Feline gold.”

“What?”  He gave a soft squawk, remembering his dad at the last second and keeping his voice from shouting.  “Feline?  I’m a cat?  Dude.”  He frowned, let down.

Derek rolled his eyes with a snort.

“Not Fluffy the housecat, idiot.”  He told him, officially _done_.  “Predators remember?”

He’d only told him that a whopping five minutes ago.

 _Bitten_.

“Ooh.”  Stiles perked up.  “Lions, tigers, and bears oh my!”

“You joke but…”  Derek smirked.

“What, really?”  Stiles blinked.  “What kind am I? Can you tell?  Am I cool?  Badass?  I wanna be something badass since I missed the wolf-train…”

“Won’t know until you do a shift.”  Derek shook his head, laughing on the inside – even as his head spun – at the sudden starts-and-stops Stiles went through, taken out of his grief if only for a moment before sobering once more.  “The scent of your animal side is too faint to catch right now and even then it’d still have to be familiar to tell you.  Your features might be a better way but…”

“Same problem.”  Stiles nodded, thinking.  “How do you shift?”

“Born.”  Derek shrugged.  “How do you blink?  It’s the same thing for me.”

Born.  Stiles blinked himself at that.  Derek Hale was a born werewolf meaning it was genetic meaning…oh shit.  That Van Helsing thing he’d thought about before might be more real than he’d realized if being a, a _shifter_ was genetic.

“Look.”  Derek blew out a breath.  “I’m gonna be here awhile dealing with…everything.  I’ll help you,” the best he can…  “And your friend, Scott, right?”

“Yeah, Scott.”

“But the big thing is staying calm which if he’s a wolf is going to be harder on him than for you depending on what kind of cat you are.”  He smirked.  “Wolves are known for their tempers but we’re _nothing_ compared to a jaguar.”

“I’ll bring Scotty over tomorrow if I have to hog-tie him.”  Stiles swore, perking up at the idea of shifter lessons.

“Do that.”  Derek nodded, shoving off the door in a flex of muscle.  “You said you were attacked in the preserve?  I’m guessing your dad doesn’t know any of this.”

“Yeah, maybe a mile in from the southern border.  And: hell no.  I thought I was maybe going crazy yesterday.”

“Okay.”  Derek rested one hand on the door handle.  He’d respect that until he can’t anymore.  “Remember: _calm_.”

“Hey Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, man.  And…good night.”

…

The conversation between Stiles and Derek lasted less than an hour but it gave him concrete information and lifted the lingering worry about both frontotemporal dementia and hallucinations.

It also gave him a direction to point his search towards, starting with breaking down the word Derek had used: zometamorphic.

Zo he knew: from the Greek and meant regarding to animals.

Morph he’d thought meant change _but_ it was from the Greek and instead meant form, leaving him with meta which to no surprise was also from the Greek and meant change, the two coming together in metamorphosis, like the process of changing form a caterpillar underwent to become a butterfly.

Putting it together, zometamorphic was a description of changing form regarding to animals, and in an interesting twist a word he found while breaking down zometamorphic was zoanthropic which covered a type of mental condition where people were convinced they were actually animals.

Link clicking for the win.

He wondered how many of the subset of people diagnosed with zoanthropy weren’t crazy at all but shifters who hadn’t kept their secret well enough.

Thinking about what had happened the last couple of days the following morning as he sat at the kitchen table with a mostly-demolished plate of turkey-bacon and veggie omelet with only a few swallows of orange juice left, he stared at the seemingly innocuous pill sitting in the shallow little “pinch” dish that came with the glass stacking mixing bowls someone from the sheriff’s department had given them a few years ago for Christmas.  He didn’t want to take it.  Wanted to take the risk that whatever about becoming a shifter that had maybe-probably cured Scott’s asthma had cured his ADHD as well.

But he hadn’t thought to ask Derek about it and the werewolf was still asleep or was doing a damn good job at faking despite Stiles’s improved senses…though he supposed if anyone _could_ fool the increased senses of a shifter it would be someone who’s lived with them all their life.

“Once is happenstance.”  He muttered under his breath, then snatched up the pill and knocked it back with the rest of his juice before shoveling down the rest of his breakfast.

Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, thrice a pattern, and four times a certainty…or if it was his Dad borrowing from Fleming’s Moscow Rules four was a warrant.

At the moment all Stiles had was coincidence.

And he wasn’t going to risk his mental health, grades, and general ability to function on _coincidence_.

Another headache and/or confirmation from Derek and _then_ he’d reconsider ditching the Adderall…though that would only “fix” the physiological problem.

Stiles would still have to handle sixteen years of behavior and four years of symptom-management habits all on his own.

 _If_ shifter healing worked on pre-existing conditions as well as wounds.

 _If_.

After finishing rinsing his dishes and stacking them for emptying/loading the dishwasher after school, Stiles grabbed his backpack and ran out the door.

He’d worry about all of that later, or after a headache kicks in.

Starbucks was calling his name and he had a best-friend to convince to come over for werewolf lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I’m changing how eye-color is done with werewolves/shifters for TW in this fic.  
> Wolves: Red: Alpha; Blue: Beta; Yellow: Omega  
> Cats: Gold, Yellow, Green, Blue depending on species  
> I’m also going to play with how the Bite and turning works with various species so look out for that though I’m keeping wolves with Alpha-only.


	3. Chapter 3

** Apex Predators **

**Chapter Three: Shifters 101**

Stiles didn’t _quite_ have to hog-tie Scott to get him in Roscoe for werewolf lessons, but it was close.

Thankfully, the other boy didn’t have any plans with Allison until Sunday after she got back from her family thing for the weekend and wasn’t scheduled at Deaton’s otherwise it might have gotten to that point.

His best-bro, like Stiles himself, was more than a little tense over the whole thing but since he hadn’t seen Derek’s eyes flare blue like Stiles had plus the whole Wolfman impression, Stiles couldn’t really blame him for wanting to ignore it when possible since he hadn’t witnessed the _furry-side_ of the situation or had any idea of just how _not good_ it would be for one of them to lose their cool in public because all they had to go on at the moment were senses going crazy and physical abilities that had blossomed over night plus kick-ass healing with no training on how to _use_ any of it without drawing attention.

Scott was one of those annoying glass-half-full people.

He wanted to believe, somehow, that there would be no downside or repercussions for their upgrade no matter how many times Stiles, or even his own instincts, told him otherwise.

Even Stiles was aware that he was often suspicious and pessimistic at times to the point of irritating everyone around him above and beyond what came hand-in-hand with his ADHD issues.  That aside: he _knew_ there was a downside before Derek had told him anything or he’d put together a few pieces regarding the Hale Fire.  Though he was thinking that Peter might not be a werewolf like his nephew.  Given the coma and scars.  Without more information he couldn’t know if that happened or if it was like brown eyes or blue eyes: dominant versus recessive, for born shifters or if it varied depending on species, like were wolf-shifters a different allele or occurrence ratio than lions?

It went without saying that Stiles had _all the questions_.

He also got another headache that morning that this time kicked in before he even made it to school and lasted half-again as long as yesterday’s, barely making it through the end of second period before dissipating.

Which led to a whole new flurry of theories and suppositions now that he’s landed firmly on the _pattern_ side of the equation and a new set of questions to tackle Derek with.

Maybe he had a book or something…

If he was a born wolf then they _had_ to have family lore beyond oral histories, especially since he knew well enough that the Hales had been in Beacon Hills since before the founding of the original settlement, grabbing up land-claims right-left-and-center that thanks to never selling a damn thing except in rare occasions meant that even today a big chunk of Beacon Hills sat on land leased from the family who owned something like twenty-five square miles of Northern California wilderness _alone_ with the preserve and not counting their properties in the surrounding Beacon County.  The Hales _built_ Beacon Hills.  Everyone else, from what Stiles could tell, followed after since thanks to their running the town and a lot of the surrounding area with a velvet-gloved iron-fist there’d been little crime even in the early days of the Wild West and Gold Rush.

Huh.  He considered that through new eyes.  Just how many residents of Beacon Hills, past and present, were supernatural if the place was basically founded, owned, and run by a pack of werewolves before the Hale fire?  He was pretty sure that one of Peter’s brothers had been on the city council and that until his death in the mid-eighties their dad was the flipping _mayor_.

A theory to pursue and research another day since the turn onto his home street was coming up.

He frowned as he steered Roscoe down his street, Scott chattering about Allison in the seat next to him – Stiles had gone with an insistent invitation to come over instead of leading with werewolf school which he felt kinda like a manipulative asshole about but needed doing if the rumors regarding Scott’s sudden lacrosse genius running around school were any sign –, when that tangent occurred to him.  Stiles hoped they hadn’t lost their family histories in the fire.  That would suck not just for his research but for Derek and any kids or extended family he might have/have someday.

And the shitty part was Stiles wouldn’t know one way or another without poking what had to be an open and oozing wound with Laura’s death by asking about it, though at least a lot of the public service stuff should be freely available without bothering the older wolf.

“Your dad on mid or late?”  Scott finally broached a subject of conversation that _wasn’t_ Allison as they pulled into the Stilinski drive and he noticed the squad car gone. 

Being the son of a nurse, he was more than familiar with shiftwork.  As the two had gotten older and their mom/dad’s friendship grew in pace with their own, each boy would often spend the night at whoever’s house wasn’t on late/graveyard shift and in the case of both Dad Stilinski and Mama McCall working the same shift would split the babysitting fee to Ms. Thomas who’d lived next door to the Stilinski house long before newlywedded Noah and Claudia had moved in.

“Should be mid,” Stiles told him with a sigh, knowing better than to count on that with an open death investigation even if they didn’t have an official cause of death yet.  “But who knows with everything going on?”  He thought a minute then added.  “Probably depends on if the coroner finished his autopsy and preliminary report or not.”

Scott just nodded at that, following Stiles inside then coming to a quick – if confused – halt at the sudden onslaught of strange smells he was picking up.

Things like leather and woods and green things, none of which really had a place at Casa de Stilinski where all the materials to be found were hard-wearing and easy-cleaning cotton blends worn by a pair of males that had approximately zero interest in plants.

It sent a rough growl rumbling through his chest, garnering him an amused glance from amber eyes as Stiles shot him a _look_ before heading out to the backyard where, once Scott cleared the backdoor and glanced around, contained the source of the strange scent that had lightly-but-thoroughly coated the downstairs of the Stilinski house.

And it came from a scowling, tanned, buff dude with what Scott was pretty certain his best friend would call murder eyebrows.

“Scott McCall, my bitten best bro,” Stiles flailed a hand in introduction between the two growling males staring each other down in his backyard.  Man, was he glad that his dad had put up an eight-foot privacy fence when they moved in and the then-deputy realized that the greenbelt behind their house abutted the preserve.  The last thing the neighbors needed to see were Scotty flashing – _yep there went the fangs, claws, and sideburns to go with the eyes_ – his werewolfy self at the unimpressed-form of Derek Hale who’d restrained himself to a harsh snarl, sounded like a reprimand to Stiles, and a long stare from glowing blue eyes which faded away as soon as Scott lowered his head.  Which, admittedly, took a bit and left Stiles standing there like Switzerland between his bullheaded bestie and his not-backing-down house guest.  “Derek Hale, born werewolf who _offered to help us_.”  Stiles punched Scott lightly on the shoulder, trying to jar him out of his stand-off against the older shifter.  “So chill out dude, don’t be a tool.”

“He’s wolf.”  Derek nodded once Scott had _finally_ lowered his gaze and cut off the growl, though he was still wearing his wolf-traits and had a soft rumble going in his chest.

“Ya think?”  Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes.  “I’m just glad he didn’t do any of _that_ at school.  Dude!”  Stiles shook his head at Scotty once his bestie lifted his gaze to look at him.  “Not cool.”

“He needs to work on finding an anchor, fast.”  Derek told Stiles, them both really but he doubted the pup was paying too much attention with his instincts roused as they were.  Not really his fault, just the way things were with Derek being a strange wolf and his only other experience of their kind being so overwhelmingly negative.  “He didn’t just slip a little he went into a full beta shift.”

“Yeah, got that.”  Stiles blew out a breath, rubbing one hand over his head.  “But _why_?”

“Territory.”

“Huh?”

“This is _your_ territory.”  Derek explained with a shrug.  “But his wolf seems to have bonded to you, almost like a packmate.”

“And you’re a strange wolf on pack territory.”  Stiles nodded thoughtfully.

“Maybe,” a frown, “but it’s my best guess which means whatever _you_ are is still most likely a species of cat shifter.”

 _That_ managed to jar Scott enough from his protective instincts to draw back some of his features now that he’d calmed down…some…at hearing Stiles and Hale talk.

“Dude.”  Scott blinked eyes that flickered back to normal as his wolfy sideburns retreated.  “You’re a cat?  That’s _so cool_.”

“Says the werewolf with territorial issues.”  Stiles smirked, arching a brow at the suddenly blushing face of Scott.  “Are you going to run around marking the bushes, dude?  Do we need to leave you alone for a moment?”

A punch to the shoulder was his answer, even as Derek drawled:

“Says the unidentified cat shifter that eye-flared me for walking into your house _with_ your dad.”

“You don’t know what he is?”

“Dude.”  Stiles frowned, pouting.  “It’s not like there’s a match-your-scent scratch-and-sniff we can check.”  He complained.  “Even saying I’m a cat of uncertain species is still just his best guess.  I _could_ be something else since all Derek really knows is what I’m not and there’s something about my scent not being that strong yet…”

“Your medication is helping mask it.”  Derek enlightened him.  “Which…”

“Oh yeah.”  Stiles brightened.  “I wanted to ask you about that!  Does being bitten and surviving cure health problems? Or make meds less effective or something?”

“Your headaches.”  Scott nodded.  “And I haven’t had an asthma attack since Sunday even with lacrosse practice and Coach throwing me in as goalie.”  The latter of which at least should have thrown him into a mild attack if the suicide runs didn’t do it first during warm-ups.

“Both.”  Derek told them.  “But it depends on the health problem, it has to be physical.”

“Like it can cure a chemical imbalance in the brain but not suicidal ideation?”  Stiles supplied.

“Exactly like that.”  Derek told him with a narrow-eyed, inscrutable glare.

Though granted, the inscrutable was mainly in the eyebrows.

Derek wasn’t sure he liked that _that_ was where Stiles jumped to first thing.

“What do you know for sure Stiles _isn’t_ then?”  Scott asked, wanting to get off _that_ subject as fast as possible.

At least he and Stiles wouldn’t have to worry about their parents scraping together the money, even if that was more a Scott/Mom problem than a Stiles/Sheriff one, for the medication co-pays and behavioral therapist visits for Stiles and hospital stays for Scott plus respiratory therapy.

That alone would be, like, eighty bucks per inhaler and two hundred a night at the hospital alone saved.

“Wolf,” Derek ticked off his fingers with each species.  “Wild dog, and lion.”

“Woah.”  Scott blinked, thinking about how awesome it would be to be a werelion for a minute thing then shaking his head to focus, Stiles looking alternately bored and jittery next to him.  “How do we figure it out?”

“Get him to shift.”  Derek smirked.  “Watch his behavior, hope he’s not anything too unique.”

Stiles grumbled under his breath.  He _knew_ Derek wanted to say “too weird.”  He didn’t know how but he _knew it_.  Only been around a day and already with the sass.

“How do we do that?”

“Same thing you need to learn: with an anchor.”  Derek told them.  “Different species have different issues and different people have different triggers for them.  Canids are the worst for controlling the shift but other species have their quirks.”

“Like what?”  Stiles asked, head cocked and considering.

“Bears have the worst startle reflex.  Cats are easily offended.  Both are known to hold grudges.  Avians can be snotty, ratels operate almost entirely on spite.”  He shrugged.  “They’re stereotypes but they’re also stereotypes for a reason.”

“So, what?”  Scott frowned.  “We have to try and piss Stiles off to get him to shift?”

“Or figure out what state of mind will bring it out.”  Derek winced.  “Big pain will do it a lot of a time for a wolf but I don’t know if it’ll work on a…Stiles.”

“What constitutes _big pain_?”  Stiles narrowed his eyes on the older shifter.

“Breaking a bone usually.”  Derek told them.  “Also consider this one of your first lessons in shifters 101 if you remember nothing else: breaking a bone can kickstart the healing process for a shifter if they’re unconscious or have wounds that aren’t healing right away.”

“How long would it take to heal the broken bone then?”  Stiles frowned, wishing he had his notebook.

“Minutes.”

“What?”  Scott squawked, eyes wide.  “Minutes?  That’s all?”

“Yes.”  Derek bit out with a sigh.  “Which means you have to be _careful_ in public or playing contact sports if you don’t want humans to notice you magically healing.”

“Hunters, right?”  Stiles grumbled, disgruntled.

Derek blinked, surprised – and impressed despite himself, again, at the leaps the kid is able to make.

“Yeah.”  He clenched his jaw.  “Hunters.”

“What?”  Scott was starting to feel like a broken record.  “There’s for real hunters?  Like of… _us_?”  He whispered dramatically.

“Uh huh.”  Stiles rubbed his hand over his eyes.  “I was afraid of that.  There’s no reason to have such widespread lore corresponding with _and then a hunter/man/knight killed it and it died and everyone lived happily ever after_ unless _that_ part of things had a grain of truth in it too like the shifter legends and lore seem to have.”

“Rule One of being a shifter,” Derek folded his arms over his chest.  “Keep the secret or someone _will_ kill you.”

“How do you know?”  Scott asked, with his oblivious lack of tact.

A harsh slap to his stomach – with newly-shifter-improved behind it – from Stiles had him biting his tongue at the, well, shattered look that flashed on Hale’s face before it disappeared, shutters falling and the older man, shifter, whatever going blank-faced again.

“Anchors.”  Stiles chirped.  “What are they and how do we find them?”

“It’s something that anchors your conscious mind over your instincts.”  Derek explained voice as blank and bland as his face.  Dealing with Bitten he could have said their human side instead of conscious mind but from what he was getting off of the kid with the crooked-jaw that had the potential to backfire in a bad way.  The last thing someone struggling with any level of denial needed to hear was language separating them into animal and human lest they think they can ignore their shifter half.  All that leads to is yet another cautionary tale of a shifter snapping and having to be put down.  Or losing control and being hunted.  “Something you tell yourself when you feel your control slipping.  A thought that focuses you.”

“Like a mantra.”  Stiles chewed at the corner of his mouth.  “Or meditation imagery.”

“Exactly like that.”  Derek nodded.  “It has to be strong, something that can snap you out of the deepest rage or panic or fear in a second.  Family.  Pack.  A drive to protect or iron-clad sense of self.”

“How will we know when we’ve found it?”  Scott asked doubtfully.  That _definitely_ sounded like something up Stiles’s alley with all his martial-arting and yoga and crap.

Scott would rather hang out with Stiles and play video games or practice for lacrosse or help out at the animal clinic than sit around and try and find his center or whatever.

Derek shook his head, walking and brushing passed the teens to go back inside having more than maxed out his ability to _people_ for the moment.

This is why he chose a career dealing with the outdoors and not humans or humanoid supernaturals.

At least flora and fauna didn’t speak.

Well.

Not as vanilla humans would label it anyway.

Derek usually understood the language of a forest a _lot_ better than that of a boardroom, classroom, or watercooler any day of the week.

“You’ll know.  You can’t mistake it.”

“Thanks, great talk.”  Scott pouted, Stiles rolling his eyes at him.

“You realize he’s not playing around right?”  Stiles flung an arm around his neck and pulled him down into a headlock complete with noogie.  “There’s probably not anything he _can_ teach either of us until we figure out how to control ourselves.”

“You think?”

“Oh Scotty.”  Stiles sighed, shaking his head with a tsk.  “How can you doubt me?”

Scott finally managed to slip the headlock and darted out of reach.

“Maybe because your last great idea before hooking us up with a werewolf mentor is the _reason_ we need one in the first place.”

“Ouch.”  Stiles faux-winced.  “That hurts me, Scott.  Really.  Deep inside.”

“Whatever asshole.  Now come help me figure out how to _ohm_ or whatever.”

“Yesh mashtah…”  Stiles slurred complete with a zombiefied-Igor shuffle before cackling and straightening up when Scotty snorted out a laugh at the pantomime.

…

Inside, Derek rolled his eyes.

Idiots.

…

“Why do I smell Peter in your room?”  Derek asked that night after the Sheriff had returned – late – with the official word that Laura had been killed and her death was now a murder investigation.  Though he didn’t know _why_ since the man had been mum on that which had Derek leaning hunter rather than whatever rogue Alpha had given the Bite to a couple of teens.

Maulings were kinda hard to confuse with a human murder, which was why shifters always – well, usually – went after each other with fangs and claws instead of knives and guns.

Shifters in prison was just a terrible idea all around and a certain death sentence.

Other shifters would kill them or break them out before they ever arrived, or a hunter working in the justice or penal system would sometimes in the case of the former but never the latter, rather than allow being caged expose them to the world at large.

A couple days in lockup was one thing.

Anything longer than a week in a cage and…well.

That didn’t work out well for _anybody_ involved, a lesson well learned long before the Unites States were the United States.

“Because I haven’t done laundry yet for the week?”  Stiles suggested, not looking up from scribbling answers on today’s round of trig homework.  Different teachers lived to torture their students in various fun and exciting ways.  In the case of this year’s trig class that mean short sheets of questions every day instead of a large weekly assignment or middling assignments spaced through the week/weekend.

Derek’s frown deepened.  This wasn’t what he’d come to talk to Stiles about but now that he’d become more familiar with the teen shifter’s scent he could better place what was _out_ of place.  Like the faint underlying smell that Derek associated with _family-pack-weakness-pain_ that couldn’t be anything _but_ Peter buried under the scent of Stiles, eau du high school, and the harsh bite of chemicals-blood-sickness-medication that he associated with hospitals and medical clinics.

He knew Laura’s scent too well to confuse the lingering, if mild, smell he tracked at Stiles’s words to the laundry basket to confuse them.

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Stiles looked up with a bit of a smirk, humor dancing in his amber eyes, replaying tartly: “then you should’ve been more specific, Yodawolf.”

“No.”  Just… _no_.

Laughing under his breath, Stiles shrugged that off.  It wasn’t his best effort if on-point at the moment.  Though seeing the face the other shifter made he wasn’t going to stop trying out nicknames until he found one that stuck no matter how much Derek objected.

He wouldn’t be _him_ if he let an opportunity for shit-stirring _that_ sweet pass him by.

Deciding to give the guy a break, it was a shitty week for both of them but Stiles’s drama wasn’t even _close_ to what wolfy was going through, he gave.

“I visit your uncle every Sunday for a couple hours in the evening.”  He admitted.  “Used to be an after-school thing but high school and sports forced me to rearrange my schedule.”

“Why?”  Derek was honestly baffled.  The Sheriff he could see checking on Peter since Laura had passed off responsibility to the older man but, Stiles?  That didn’t make any sense with the little he knew about the other shifter.

Stiles shrugged, not really wanting to get into it, but made an offer anyway.

“You could come with me next time if you want.”  He fiddled with his pencil, nervous at the blank face stare he was getting from the other.  Derek seemed to have two settings: blank and irritated; with very rare dips into grieving or amused.  Made him hard to read and Stiles didn’t know enough about cataloging scents to try and use chemosignals and pheromones to read more than that from him.  “Not that I’m trying to say to have to or that you can’t – or won’t – go on your own, but I thought, you know, friendly face, and some people don’t like hospitals, not that I’m saying you’re like that or anything…”

“I’ll think about it.”  Derek broke in, backing up so he was mere lingering in the doorway instead of actually in the room.  He wasn’t waiting until Sunday after being separated from his uncle for six years at Laura’s insistence.  No way.  But it was thoughtful for the teen to offer nonetheless.  “You said something to your Dad about going into the city tomorrow?”

“Uh yeah.”  Stiles raked his hand not fiddling with his pencil through his hair.  “Mondays and Thursday is kendo practice in San Fran from seven to nine plus the hour trip there and back again it fills my extracurricular hours up.”  Plus for some reason Sensei Grant wants him to come by early though he didn’t say why.  “Tomorrow I’m leaving at five.”

Derek nodded.  “What about Scott?”

Stiles blinked.  “Lacrosse, work, out at six-thirty I think.”

“Good.”

“Going to try and get in more wolfy-training?”  Stiles frowned lightly.  “He didn’t do too well today.”

“There’s a couple wolf-specific techniques I can try.”  Derek told him then frowned and admitted: “might try sparring with him.”

“Get him mad, right?”  Stiles nodded, working through it.  “He’s pretty laid-back but he’s been rougher on the lacrosse field than normal from what the guys have said at school.”

“Day before the full moon.”  Derek shrugged a shoulder.  “He’ll be a lot easier to rile than any day of the month except for the new moon, that’s standard for wolves.”

Controlling it was going to be a problem considering how quick the kid was to beta-shift at the mere sight of another wolf though he hadn’t snapped at Stiles once during the intro-to-meditating lesson that had gone on in the backyard before both teens were frustrated with each other and broke up for homework and food.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”  Stiles told him, hearing the warning in Derek’s words loud and clear.  He was going to have to keep track of Scott closer than close – as much as possible considering their disparate class schedules – at school to keep accidents to a minimum.

“Do.”  Derek nodded then turned and headed for the guest room down the hall.

Stiles just rolled his eyes and filed away the latest batch of born-wolf provided information in his shifter notebook then went back to socking away the last of his homework before diving back into the wide world of shifter mythos, legend, and lore to be had on the internet.

…

Despite the warning, Scott didn’t have any issues in the hormone-filled halls of high school, of the two of them the crooked-jawed teen much more easy going and able to let shit roll off his back, though other than Jackson “Jackass” Whittemore no one really fucked with Stiles between his known ability to prank the shit out of people until they either beg for mercy or run away and his high-placing abilities in three sports – even if they weren’t the _popular_ sports he still contributed to the athletic prowess of the school and was therefore considered of at least _some_ worth to the jocks and socialites that ran the school.

Though he wished that same immunity from torture that sports and fear gave him worked on his chem teacher but no.

Harris _hated_ him and had since he locked eyes on the snarky form of Stiles the first week of freshman year after he’d corrected the science teacher’s math.

That Stiles didn’t just roll over and take it during that first encounter had likely only made things worse.

But what could he say?

Rolling over and showing belly wasn’t in his nature when it came to lesser species.

Bullies, in Stiles’s considered opinion, rated somewhere between slugs and lampreys on the _why does this even exist_ o-meter.

Still, even with Harris working his last nerves and Scott in his Allison-daze, Stiles wasn’t feeling any more likely to fall into a shift like he’d seen out of either Scott – uncontrolled – or Derek – controlled, reinforcing the idea he’d gotten after Derek’s most recent visit to his room that whatever he was it wasn’t anything lunar-inclined.  Which was weird.  Scott got bit – lunatic.  Heh.  Stiles bit by the same creature and nothing.

Shifters were weird and obeyed approximately no rules for symptomatic tracking that Stiles knew.

He would think that even with not being a wolf like Scotty, by being bitten by the same creature that he’d have the same lunar-involved issues…but no.  Why would he?  That would only make _sense_.

And from what he could tell, shifters just… _didn’t_ when it came to applying human ideas of behavior to them, at least as far as the Bite was concerned.

But then, he supposed they were _supernatural_.

Thinking inside the box probably wouldn’t get him very far when by their very nature shifters were _beyond_ what his American teen culture considered natural.

He had to reframe his parameters.

Swinging by his house to have a quick dinner and trade Roscoe for the car, he saw no sign of either his dad or Derek before he tossed his gear in the passenger seat and turned the little commuter car towards the road leading to the eastbound highway and San Fran.  The drive would be good for that.  Plenty of time to think to the lulling sounds of rubber on pavement and the blur of white lines.

At the very least it would keep him from obsessing over what Derek and Scott would be getting up to or how his Dad’s search for a killer was going or what Sensei Grant wanted/needed that couldn’t wait until after practice.

Small blessing that it was from having his entire worldview shattered beyond all recognition.

…

“Do it again.”

“Dude.”  Scott scowled at the older wolf, not unlike an angry puppy if he could only see it.  “You _threw me into a post_.”

Derek smirked.

Training the pup was nothing less than frustrating, especially since they had to keep it limited to one of the empty warehouses he’d found listed in the Trust paperwork the Sheriff had started going over with him.  The preserve would be so much better.  Or even the Stilinski backyard.  But with Stiles gone for kendo – which he’d never admit he’d had to look up and found himself reluctantly impressed with the kind of dedication that discipline demanded, something he’d have thought the seemingly-hyperactive kid wasn’t capable of, though he’d had to look up Adderall and the accompanying condition as well with what he’d found making _so much sense_ from what he’d seen and remembered of the kid before Laura dragged him to the East Coast – and the Sheriff knee-deep in Laura’s murder investigation he didn’t want to take a risk on a nosy neighbor asking questions about what they both were doing there without a Stilinski present.

Back when his pack had been his family, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a Bitten.

It happened, even in born-packs, with human children born to packs always given the option in most packs to take the Bite after they graduated from high school.

One thing he remembered however from his own training before the Fire was that training Bitten was an involved process.  So involved that they usually were kept apart from humans for at least a month.  Until their control was certain.

Having to hide what two newly-Bitten teens were around high school, sports, and jobs was _not_ how it was done.

More, it was a time-suck, one he wasn’t certain he should be wasting time _with_ when he needed to track down who or what killed Laura.  An unfortunate side-effect of _blending_ had brought him into the orbit of the teens.  Now that the sheriff’s department had cleared him he could easily disappear and conduct his own search.

But…

But.

His instincts were screaming at him.

A rogue Alpha _just happens_ to Bite two teens in the preserve, the same preserve where his sister had been killed not even twenty-four hours before?

 _That_ didn’t say hunter to him, though it could be a hunter’s trap, one specifically baited to catch Laura’s last remaining kin: him.

A little convoluted, maybe.

But hunters had never been the most _clear-sighted_ creatures to roam the earth either.

All that hate and bigotry tended to cloud things.

No, his instincts – above and beyond the basic drive to nurture what amounted to a pair of orphaned, in the shifter-sense, pups – said that staying was the right call.

That it came with a side of batting around a pup just happened to be a bonus form of stress relief attached to that call.

...

 


	4. Chapter 4

** Apex Predators **

**Chapter Four: Favors Owed**

_Japanese Cultural Center, San Francisco, California; Thursday January 13, 2011_

Stiles pulled into the paved parking lot of the cultural center, already spying the SUV Sensei Grant drove, familiar with the Tahoe after years under the older man’s tutelage complete with talks over car roofs between the Sensei and his father or post-competition trips to a pizza or ice cream parlor.

Leaving his gear in the car for the moment Stiles locked it up and made for the gym office inside the center where he was most likely to find his Sensei.

Though what the older man wanted that couldn’t wait until after practice Stiles was no closer to figuring out than he’d been yesterday when he got the message from the man.  To be fair however, compared to what _else_ was going on in his life, he hadn’t devoted all that much time to parsing it out.  Discovering what _species_ he even was anymore took up quite a bit of his attention and what wasn’t devoted to _that_ was stuck on helping Scott learn control and researching any and all information on shifters that the internet had to find.

Which was a lot.

Even after he sorted out the furries and weird porn, of which there was more than he’d ever wanted to consider before in his life.

Whether any of the remaining information was any _good_ was a question that he dealt with half by comparing it to what Derek had already told him and the other half – that couldn’t be compared since it neither contrasted with Derek’s information or complemented it – sorted through in his usual manner of looking for information that carried over between three or more unique sites.  What was left after that process might still be crap but at least it was well-entrenched crap.  And even _that_ could be helpful to know since well-entrenched crap told him what to avoid doing to avoid drawing attention from the uninformed.  Useless against a hunter maybe but still useful in keeping someone like Lydia Martin from figuring him and Scott out.

Peeking in through the slim window in the office door, Stiles spotted the middle-aged sensei who he’d learned over the years was of mixed Japanese and African-American descent, Sensei Grant at times using the story of his parents’ scandalous marriage and his subsequent birth as a lesson during practices with new _kenshi_.  Younger Stiles hadn’t quite understood why.  He’d been taught that love was love.  Sensei Grant was hardly the first person of partial Japanese descent he’d met, especially living in California.  It had been his dad who’d had to sit him down and explain that it wasn’t that Sensei’s mother was Japanese and his father a black man that was the problem, but that he was African- _American_.

In his early teens, Stiles had known in a theoretical way that xenophobia was a thing after learning about World War Two and the Holocaust.  He’d just supposed that it was an isolated issue not a global one, he’d never been exposed to the idea that as an American he could be disliked because of his nationality.  That Sensei Grant had never met his maternal grandparents because of his dad’s country of birth was an introduction into a whole new reason to think most people were idiots.

Looking up from where he was intently studying something on a computer screen in front of him, Sensei Grant caught Stiles’s eye and waved him into the office with a smile, the good-natured and endlessly patient teacher seeming to study Stiles with an equal intensity as he’d used on the computer, a look in his deep brown eyes Stiles had never seen before.

“Stiles, thank you for coming.”  He greeted his student, waving him down into one of the office chairs.

“No problem, Sensei.”  Stiles held in a shrug, knowing his teacher disapproved of that sort of inelegant movement.  Sensei Ken Grant, from everything Stiles knew about him, preferred controlled elegance in just about everything from his study of kendo to the way he dressed outside of practice to his lovely, statuesque wife.  “Leftovers for dinner wasn’t exactly a hardship.”

“I wouldn’t think so, considering I’ve had your cooking before, Stiles.”  Grant agreed, a bit bemused, as always by the teen.  A sensation that was in no way abated by the reason for their meeting.  “I know you must be a bit at sea for why you’re here.”

Stiles tilted his head to the side in an agreeing motion.

One-on-ones weren’t unknown with Sensei Grant, but he wasn’t up for a promotion test for _San-dan_ for another year at the absolute earliest he’d think.

Honestly, that he’d made _Ni-dan_ in the time he had had been surprising both to him and his dad, if not surprising at all to his Sensei.

He wanted to make _San-dan_ before leaving high school for college and likely having to find a new kendo club and sensei but other than that he did have any expectations regarding his advancement up the grades.

“On Monday you met a visitor to the Temple.”  Grant proceeded to enlighten him.  “A monk you’d never met before, yes?”  Stiles nodded, his sensei continuing on with only the briefest pause.  “That monk was, _is_ , a visitor from Japan that travels between monasteries and temples as he feels drawn.”

“A wandering monk?”  Stiles blinked in surprise.

“That’s one way to look at it.”  Grant told him, a bit wry.  “Sometimes he won’t speak to anyone at all, just observe, others he’ll meet with dozens of people.”

Stiles was starting to get that feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The one that argued stay when his mind said run, fight when others might flee, and look when most would turn away.

“He spoke to me.”  Stiles admitted.  “Said that I wasn’t a danger to the Temple, the way he said it made it seem…”

“Like he’d been looking for you.”  Grant nodded sympathetically.  “He does that.”

“You?”

Ken shook his head.  “Not me, my sister when we were younger than you are now.”

“What happened?”

His teacher ignored the question, continuing on and passing over what looked like a picture but once Stiles examined it easily placed the shiny image and heavy cardstock as a postcard without even having to flip over the back and see the distinctive line-breaks and stamp placement square.  It wasn’t blank.  Rather, it had what looked like traditional brush calligraphy taking up the whole “letter” space to the left of the white cardstock backing and a drawing in pencil inside of the stamp square of a tree with roots and branches touching a circle surrounding it, Stiles’s name – _holy shit his actual name, crap that’s a new level of creepy-stalker-monk_ – written in the spidery hand that made him think of the elderly complete with his home address on the addressee lines, looking all very Japanese-Hogwarts-esque.

Flipping back to the front, Stiles noted the postcard being from Fisherman’s Wharf, then asked: “What does it say?”, since among his talents sadly he didn’t read Japanese calligraphy.

“You’d have to ask someone trained in reading sōsho,” Grant pursed his lips as he eyed the calligraphy.  “It’s beyond my abilities.”

Great.  Stiles rolled his eyes.  Of course it was.

Eyeing the address lines again, he asked another question: “I don’t suppose our wandering monk actually lives at,” he frowned thinking of where the “sender” address would be.  “A shop in Fisherman’s Wharf?”

“Not that I’m aware.”  Ken smiled.  “But I don’t suppose you’ll know until you check for yourself.”  He tilted his head a bit, eyes dancing.  “Missing _one_ practice shouldn’t hurt too much after all.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes.  He smelled a set-up, his sensei wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it.

“Fine.”  He agreed to play along.  “But if I end up chopped into little pieces I’m going to haunt you for the rest of your _life_.”

“Agreed.”  Ken chuckled, then said when Stiles went to hand the postcard back over.  “Take it with you.  I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

Stiles rolled his eyes again with a soft grumble.

At least it wasn’t rush hour anymore, getting to Fisherman’s Wharf from Japantown should only take fifteen or twenty minutes plus a little more to find parking.

Otherwise it would’ve been torture.

There was nothing like having a mystery dropped on his head and then not being able to _do anything_ about it because traffic was shit.

Though the side-trip explained why Sensei Grant had asked him to come by so early instead of closer to practice.  Even in a big city like San Fran, little shops like the ones that speckled the Wharf might be closed by the time practice ended.  If Stiles had had to wait until either the weekend or Monday to discover whatever the monk wanted him to he probably would’ve driven himself and everyone around him insane.

Plugging the address into the GPS on his phone, Stiles arched a brow at the name of the store that popped up.

 _The Dancing Flame_ , his phone said.

Groaning a bit, he rubbed his fingers over his eyelids.

His wandering monk was a ruddy NPC sending him on a quest with a first stop of a used bookstore-slash-café-tattoo parlor- _magic shop_ , the last of which was what had him frustrated.

You’d think all those years of gaming had taught him better than to walk headlong into a quest but apparently not.

…

At least January wasn’t in the thick of tourist season, Stiles thought as he found a parking space relatively quickly, walking down the street from the lot and people watching as many of the seafood stalls broke down for the night as he followed his GPS directions to the correct street then thumbed it off as he looked for the store’s signage.

What he found wasn’t what he’d expected, the neat townhouse towering four stories over his head in soft red brick with what were probably sprawling flower beds and flower boxes not exactly what he thought of when it came to magic shops.

But then, that magic shops were even on his radar now was an unexpected turn of its own, so whatever.

There were two doors into the townhouse, one each sitting under a painted wooden sign either offering _The Nourishing Flame Café_ or _The Seeking Flame Used Books_ for the first floor then over large arched windows on the second story were signs for _The Bound Flame Tattoo Parlor_ and his actual destination _The Dancing Flame Emporium_.  Granted, nowhere was a word of magic.  But all it took was a quick Google search and the webpage for the foursome of shops popped up with the offerings on the Emporium’s page making it more than clear from merchandise to books to a meeting schedule what kind of shop it was.

He hoped that his enigmatic Wandering Monk NPC hadn’t sent him on a wild goose chase but if gaming had taught him anything it was that random NPCs were suspect when it came to time-wasting.

Making a guess, since the address on the postcard didn’t specify beyond the name of the emporium but didn’t say space A, B, C, or D like it would need to do for ease of delivery, Stiles loped up the steps to the door of the bookstore – used bookstores were some of his favorite places anyway so at least it wasn’t a complete loss whatever else happened – and smiled a bit at the cheerful chime of the bells hanging over the door that let the shop know a customer had entered.

A smile that widened as the shop’s smells of paper, age, leather mingled with the scents wafting through the open archway to the café of coffee, herbs, and fresh baked goods and hot soups.

Welcoming, to say the least, even if someone wasn’t an aficionado like Stiles, though thanks to his recent furry upgrade he could _also_ scent out the cleaners the various shops used underlying the rest, with the mingled blood-ink-rubber-cleanser trickling down from a spiral stairwell telling him the that signs were accurate from the outside, since he could barely scent anything at all that spoke of _magic shop_ underneath everything else.

The shop was filled along three walls with carved wooden bookshelves tightly filled but not overstuffed with books, genres clearly labeled on blackboard signs hanging down from the ceiling, while on the left-hand wall that was half-knocked-out for the archway to the café was divided with a long intake counter against the rear half of the store and the front half taken up by the check-out counter with its register and assortment of knickknacks for impulse buyers to add-on: spinners of bookmarks, reading glasses, pens, calligraphy sets, stationary, etc; while the wall behind the check-out counter was filled with locked cases showcasing what had to be expensive first editions too precious to risk to mishandling let alone theft.

Glancing through the archway Stiles saw a café winding down: special board offering half-off all pastries or soups, dollar coffees with purchase, a mostly-empty pastry display case next to the ordering counter with only a few lingering customers.

Chocolate cookies overflowing with chunks of chocolate bits and walnuts looked tempting but Stiles was on a mission and wouldn’t let his stomach derail it.

He was close to taking a gamble and braving the spiral staircase, the only available path he could see to the second floor though there was likely a private stair located somewhere in the back of the building for safety if nothing else, when a young guy not that much older than himself – early twenties maybe – popped around the corner of one of the free-standing bookshelves with what was probably his helpful customer service smile on his face.

“Hi, welcome!”  The guy with warm brown eyes and dirty blond hair greeted him, eyes gleaming and warm despite his work in customer service in a moon-pale face with more than a sprinkling of freckles.  “Can I help you?”

“Yeah.”  Stiles smiled back, if more cautiously than the store clerk, pulling the postcard – one that matched up with some on a rack hanging from the edge of a bookshelf near the register – from the pocket of his favorite red hoodie and flipping it around to show the back.  “Someone left this for me with a mutual acquaintance who suggested I try here to get it translated.”

Lennox, one of the junior members of the Dancing Flame Coven, arched a brow at the calligraphy on the postcard though he had to bite his lip to hold in a chuckle when he saw that all but the last name had been hurriedly blacked out with Sharpie if he had to guess thanks to the black smudge on one of the long fingers holding up the postcard for his perusal.

“Looks like you need Sara.”  He offered after spying the sigil drawn in the upper right corner where normally a stamp would go.  Of the older members of the coven, all four of which each owned and managed one of the four-set of stores handed down through the coven since their original founding though they’d gone through a few permutations over the years with only the emporium and bookstore staying the same, Sara and Michael were the most knowledgeable with Sara in particular prone to runic magics.  She was the only one he could think of that would be indicated by a line-sketch of the Yggdrasil.  “Upstairs, through the tattoo parlor lobby, she should be up in the emporium with Arash.”

“Thanks man.”  Stiles smiled and waved as he sped-walked over to the staircase, noting out of the corner of his eye that the clerk – who was pretty-plain if that was a thing – returned his wave while picking up a phone from behind the counter.  Warning whoever Sara was if Stiles had to guess.  No problem.  He wasn’t there for trouble, he just wanted to know what the hell his wandering monk was trying to accomplish by sending him here other than supplying him with a new hangout for days when he hit San Fran early for his kendo practices.

Wandering at a steady but unhurried pace up the spiral stair, his inner geek freaking out at the hidden motifs wound into the ironwork, spotting after a double take a dragon, the flirty flip of a mermaid’s tail, and a pair of cat-eyes just at first look without stopping to examine the workmanship before his attention was drawn from the stair to the second-floor landing.  The access to the upper floor let him out, after opening a locked ironwork gate that noted _No Access Under Sixteen Without Parent or Guardian_ in a curly script sign held between a young hunter with a bow on his back and a fairy with flowing copper hair, wisps of willow vines curling and cradling them as the tree made up the bulk of the gate behind them and the body/background of the sign.  Upstairs carried on the warm and welcoming ambience of the downstairs with warm sunset red walls with pencil or ink drawings and a golden oak front desk engraved with _The Bound Flame Tattoo_ and a logo of a lit candle wrapped in dainty chains.  A half-door blocked entry back into the shop-proper with an _Eighteen and Up Only_ sign painted on the terracotta half-door in a warm cream.

Inset in the far wall from the stair was Stiles’s objective, though he had to admit the artwork on the red walls were all striking and interesting to look at they weren’t what he was after.  The archway was shielded from view of the stairs by a thick curtain of what looked like some type of canvass or even sailcloth striped with a warm copper thread that matched the copper of the fairy’s hair on the gate with the shop name _The Dancing Flame_ painted in matching script to the tattoo parlor’s own on the wall above.  Ducking through it, Stiles found himself not in some Hollywood-stereotyped magic shop cluttered and choked beyond sanity by incense and kitsch but something more inline with a natural and bulk foods store or even a garden center.

Green growing things lined the ceiling and filled the wide windows, bins marched along the walls with labels in a tidy hand with scoops and tongs and even tweezers resting in their holders below or to the side, bookshelves a likely match for the ones in the shop below had simple leather-bound volumes or hardbacked tomes without a hint of gilt or glitter nouveau to be seen.  Candles in the creamy yellow of natural beeswax sat in state in bundles and single towering pillars whilst neat handfuls of fabric and netting tumbled out of baskets.  Jewelry gleamed on velvet inside glistening glass display cases near the register while tools of a different sort: daggers and athames and bollines sat alongside. The tools' repose in open boxes lined with silk that didn’t take even a fraction off of their lethal ability in the wrong hands.

Everything he’d _think_ of when it came to magic was present but with none of the apologetic hamming up that undercut it with a sense of the ridiculous or absurd.

And on the far wall carved into and around the door that he’d bet led to private areas and not just a breakroom and extra stock was an engraved mural of a bonfire with slim, simple figures held hands and seemed to dance around it giving the shop its name with what he thought were runes hidden within the mural not unlike the figures tucked away in the ironwork of the spiral stair.

Standing under one of the plants hung from the ceiling was a woman who waited and watched Stiles patiently as he took in the store.  She was tall, taller than her companion whose bronze skin and stern-but-handsome features made Stiles think he was the Arash the bookstore clerk spoke of.  Her blonde hair gleamed under the warm light of the light fixtures that bathed the emporium in a golden glow, with skin so pale he’d be willing to bet when he drew closer that her eyes would be bright blue.

They were, as blue as the summer sky, and filled with what he thought was deep contemplation as they took him in.

Now a few feet away from the counter, he still couldn’t hear the conversation between the pair, an oddity he hadn’t noted from the archway but was overwhelming now that he noticed and realized he’d not heard the sounds from the tattoo parlor either.

Well.

If he hadn’t believed in magic before, his own furry upgrade aside, he did now since he couldn’t think of anything else that would keep his new senses from hearing a conversation he would’ve been able to overhear as a human.

A word and a nod from the blonde had the man opening the door – Stiles getting just a glimpse of a long hall painted cream with little decoration – before ducking through it and closing it behind him.

“Sara?”  Stiles asked, setting the postcard calligraphy up on the counter.  “The clerk downstairs said you might be able to help me with this.”

“Hello, young spark.”  Her lovely face – he’d guess she was somewhere in her thirties though he had no idea beyond that – curved into a soft smile.  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you after our, how did you put it?  _Mutual acquaintance_ came by and set a few things aside for you.”

“Oh, great.”  Stiles said, unable to keep his personal brand of dry snark to himself after the events thus far this evening.  “My Wandering Monk NPC has left another surprise for me.  Goody.”

…

Sara threw her head back and let out a peal of ringing laughter.

Oh, she was going to enjoy this one she just knew it.

Though now that he was close, she had no idea how he’d been coming to her city for years from what she’d gathered from the meddling old monk – _Seers_ , she gave an internal eye roll – without sensing him before.

Power _rolled_ off of him.

It was so strong she wouldn’t doubt that a shifter or being with enhanced senses would be able to smell it – whether or not they’d _know_ what it was or not was another question – let alone anyone magically-inclined with more than the basic spark of a soul.

The only explanation she could guess at was his power needing a catalyst.

In his case the shifter’s Gift, though she’d bet that even without it and enough exposure to others of power: shifters, beings, creatures, the magically inclined, and so on; that his power would have woken without the sudden jolt of the Gift.

Still: woken was woken.

Now it was up to him and whoever would be willing to help him find his path to keep him safe from those who would be drawn to his power.

Given that the meddling monk had sent him to her coven, Sara had a damn good idea of who he’d prefer mentor the young spark.

Whether his spark was compatible to the gifts of her coven – diverse they might be but there was more to magic than simple instruction, trust and a meeting of minds was important as well for a true tuition to occur – was yet to be seen but she had hope with the volumes the monk had set aside for the spark, finally cashing in a favor owed him by her coven that had lingered since her mother’s time as their high priestess to pay their not-inconsiderable price, that the young one would learn quickly and well.

She was resolved at another look at bright amber eyes.

If she could help the child she would.

Sara and her coven had seen what happened when unscrupulous practitioners got their avaricious hands on nascent talent, let alone one as powerful as the child.

Technically she should run her plan to mentor the spark by at least her brother Michael, the high priest of their coven to her high priestess, but as all of the adults of their coven knew of the favor called in by the monk – and what for – they knew it was possible since those particular tomes were both informative to those new to the supernatural and not those sought out by the weak of will or mind depending on the tome in question.

Glancing down at the cardstock he’d set before her, she read the calligraphy then snorted with an eye roll.

“What does it say?”  Stiles asked the woman who’d been quiet for long moments, Stiles filling the time she’d seemingly been lost in thought by taking a closer look at what was kept behind the long counter that could only be accessed from the front of the emporium through another ironwork gate, though this one was topped by a pass-through of polished and carved wood that matched the door behind what he thought was his first real witch…though given that he’d just found out about a whole new world within the world there was no way to be certain of that.  “Please tell me it doesn’t say Stiles is a gullible idiot or something that would _not_ be cool or very monk-like.”

“It says,” Sara wrinkled her nose.  And she’d been worried about whether the kid would fit in with her coven.  Even if they weren’t happy about having him around – he seemed like a snarky shit though so that probably wouldn’t be an issue – with the power-leaking factor, clearing the chits they owe the monk would make all of them happy.  Owing two markers to a Seer was two too many even if only one of them had been accrued by their current generation of active members.  “Sara, meet your new apprentice.  Even-steven.”

“Huh?”  Stiles blinked, totally blindsided by that discovery.

That…that was not what he’d expected.

If asked before walking into the store he probably would have said it wasn’t even in the top one hundred guesses of things that postcard would say.

“What do you know about the monk who left this for you?”  Sara asked in turn, tapping one long pearl-painted fingernail against the postcard.

“Not a lot.”  Stiles shrugged.  “I bumped into him on Monday then my kendo sensei asked me to come by practice early and handed that over.  Sensei Grant said that the monk wanders around to where he’s ‘drawn’ but not much besides that and giving over the postcard.”

Sara nodded.  That wasn’t unexpected.  Seers of any stripe did enigmatic better than anyone she’d ever met.

“Next question then:” she folded her lower arms on the countertop then leaned forward, knitted sweater in rich sapphire blue straining a bit around her curves in the process which gained her a blush from her new apprentice.  “What do you know about _yourself_ that would bring you to a magic emporium?”

“I uh,” Stiles shifted, running one hand over the top of his head.  “I don’t really know to be honest.”

“Really?”  Sara arched a pale brow.  “You’ve got _nothing_?  Not even that Bite I could sense on your aura from the moment you stepped into the building?”

“I was told rule number one was keep the secret.”  Stiles tilted head, completely unapologetic.  “And, sorry-not-sorry but a mutual acquaintance doesn’t mean I’m going to break that with a strange woman in a shop I had no idea existed an hour ago.”

A white-toothed smile split red-painted lips.  “Excellent.”  Sara told him in approval.  “You might not be a _complete_ waste of my time after all though in magic keeping the secret is the _second_ rule.”  She lowered her voice to a confiding – if entertained – tone.  “The first is simple: for every action there is an equal cost you’ll have to pay.  Whether from a temporary drain of your innate power, a sacrifice or offering, or another method, a price must _always_ be paid, understood?”

Stiles smirked a little.  “Sure, that actually makes a lot more sense than anything to do with shifters I’ve learned in the last few days.  Newton’s Third Law but not really.”

“Close enough anyway.”  Sara allowed, straightening back up then waving him over to the pass-through, watching with interested eyes as he had no problem lifting it as she unlocked the gate and escorted him through and into the hallway, calling out: “Arash you’ve got the front, I’ll be in the consultation with my guest.”

 _“Okay_.”  Called from elsewhere in the backrooms of the building as Stiles eyed the cream walls dotted with several doors, the hallway seeming to eventually dead-end in a t-intersection with a hallway that ran along the back of the building horizontally.

He was sure one or more of the doors led to stockrooms and whatnot but Sara steered him into the second door on the left side, flipping the In/Out sign made of yet more blackboard like downstairs and some of the labels from the emporium.

It was a comfortable room arranged with a small writing desk tucked in the far corner, a small round table draped with simple cream cloth that matched the divider between the tattoo lobby and the emporium, two chairs arranged across from each other at the table and a simple straight chaise couch in a rich pine green against the single colored wall in mint contrasting nicely with the cream of the rest that matched the hallway and the table cloth.

Sara waved him down onto the chair closest the door as she picked up the three tomes the monk had used his first marker to procure for the spark and set them to the side on the table, then settled herself in for what could end up being a long explanation depending on how many questions the kid had.

She hoped not too many.

She’d like to get upstairs to her daughter before bedtime.

Sorcha was only three after all and it wasn’t Abel’s turn to man the tattoo shop for the evening shift.

Being a business owner and a tattoo artist respectively – even a tattoo artist who worked for her brother’s coven-owned tattoo shop – they didn’t _both_ get to tuck in their little sunbeam as much as they’d like.

“Tuesday morning I had a visitor.”  Sara began, resting one hand atop the stack of books at a single glance of eager eyes and fingers twitching with want.  She held in a grin.  Bibliophile or just naturally curious or both, she had a feeling he might be an interesting student if nothing else.  “A Seer that passes himself off – with ridiculous success – as nothing more than an eccentric wandering monk, likely because one is as equally true as the other.  The Wandering Monk, to use your moniker,” she nodded towards the kid.  “Rarely meddles as openly as this series of events: arranging an accident to take your measure, ensuring you have access to knowledge and tutelage to the point of calling in favors owed.  When he does those of us who know of him pay attention and listen.”

“And what he has to say this time is that I need training as _something_?”  Stiles hazarded a guess, twisting up his face in a questioning grimace.  “Why would he do that?  I can’t even figure out what kind of shifter I am.”

“Not for lack of trying, I’d guess.”  Sara ventured.  “More likely due to a lack of resources and knowledge, yes?”

Stiles nodded reluctantly.  “I met a wolf but he doesn’t know what I am either beyond not a wolf, lion, or wild dog.”

And he said nothing about his being a _spark_ or whatever.

“Hmm.”  Sara hummed.  “We’ll have to do something about that.  A shifter can help you learn shifter matters but few are they who are born with magic beyond the shift and less who keep it after the Gift.”  She grinned.  “You’re quite the special snowflake I’m afraid.  It will make you powerful but it will _also_ make you valuable to some and dangerous to others.  You will live your life, until you’re trained up to the point that testing you is hazardous to those who’d mean you harm, under constant – if at times nebulous – threat.”  Her grin turned dark.  “Behind the curtain is a beautiful, enchanting place but also is dark, dangerous, and even boring at times.”

The _are you sure you want to know_? Rang between them.

“I want to know.”  Stiles decided, eyes hardening.  “My best friend and I were attacked by a massive, deformed wolf shifter and all we could do is try and fight without hope of survival.  I _still_ don’t know why he left or how we survived to turn.  If we’re going to be in danger I want to be able to protect myself and those close to me.”

“Yes.”  Sara said, contemplatively.  “Rather thought you’d say something along those lines.  It’s there to see in your aura,” she answered the unspoken _how?_ Written across his face.  “If you know what you’re looking for.”  She winked.  “My version of the shifter ability to play lie detector.  It’s harder to learn and understand but harder to trick as well.”  She waved that off.  “But that’s a lesson for another day.  For today we need to figure out who and what you are beyond an unknown species of shifter with a spark leaking power all over the place.”

“That’s not the first time you’ve referenced that.”  Stiles noted perceptively.  “Both the spark bit and the power leaking.  The latter of which doesn’t sound good.”

Sara arched a brow.  “Anyone sensitive to magic will be able to sense you until you get a grasp on your power to keep it from sloughing off of you like an animal shedding hair.  Here,” she flicked her gaze around the room.  “All it will do is power the wards.  In other places you’re leaving behind a trail as real as footprints in wet sand or mud for someone who knows how to track – and it’s just as lasting.  Once we have an idea of what you are we can work on controlling that first – for your safety if nothing else – or getting you an amulet to help conceal you if you don’t take to it right away.”

Stiles winced.

That didn’t seem safe to say the least.

As much as trusting a complete stranger didn’t seem smart at least he understood her motives about _why_ she was helping him.  Paying a debt was a universal drive.  He’d be willing to chance that when things like shifters and magic and Seers came into play it was stronger.

Since, you know, _magic_.

“Where do we start?”

...

The witch – Stiles was pretty certain at this point that she was a witch or something like it – smiled at his question then held out her hands in between them, palms up.

“We start,” Sara told him as he hesitated a long moment before placing his hands in her own, matching the bottom of his palms with the tips of her fingers and twitching a ghost of a smile when his own fingertips rested up her wrists rather than matching her perfectly.  “With getting a _clear_ read on your aura without any clouding from your _extremely_ active mind.”

In her handful of years as high priestess after her parents retired as active members of the coven she’d never seen an aura that flickered and moved and changed as much as this young sparks, the constant change enough to keep her from watching it at times to give her a break which wasn’t her norm when faced with a new and strange practitioner, let alone a true neophyte like who’d walked into her shop this evening and she _still_ didn’t know the name of though they’d come to that eventually.

Giving a practitioner and/or some species your true name could be dangerous.

She didn’t resent young Mr. Stilinski his caution.

“What can I call you, young shifter-spark?”

Stiles blushed, knowing that if his dad was around he’d be giving him an earful over that oversight, though he still wasn’t certain why he was trusting either the wandering monk beyond that Sensei Grant seemed to or why he was trusting Sara in turn with only the monk’s implied approval to go on.

Though his instincts weren’t shouting for him to be wary of the older woman so there was that.

“Stiles.”

Sara nodded approvingly.  It had the strange tang of a nickname but rang true all the same.  A wise choice.

“Very well Stiles, I’m Sara, a witch and high priestess of my coven among other things, including it seems a potential mentor in the magical arts.”  She folded her thumbs over to hold and rest against the backs of his hands.  “Well met.”

“Well met.”  Stiles nodded, not fumbling over the strange greeting and getting a feeling that Sara agreeing to mentor him was Kinda A Big Deal.

“Do you know how to meditate, Stiles?”

“Yeah, I’m okay at it I guess.”

“Good.”  Sara nodded.  Considering the twitching and jittering his extremities had done she’d feared the opposite.  Though how much was behavior, how much was habit, and how much might be due to a newly-healed condition she couldn’t say, even if she could clearly _see_ that there had been a condition from the strong thread of ongoing healing she was picking up in his aura surrounding his mind.  “Close your eyes and listen to my voice.”

Stiles did so, focusing as she led him through a basic visualization, picturing a tree with a wide trunk and strong branching limbs reaching up and up to the sky and spreading thickly as if to encircle the world.

Eventually her words fell away, leaving behind only a soft humming tone that was as soft and smooth as thick velvet as he focused on the tree.

He didn’t know how long the trance lasted but after a while he opened his eyes naturally, not prompted by Sara in anyway, to the sight of blue summer sky eyes with a soft sheen of tears and an awe-struck expression.

“What is it?”  He asked, worried, tightening his hands to hold her own with a firm grip.  “What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing.”  Sara told him honestly with a quirk of a smile on her red lips.  “Not a damn thing at all.”  She sucked in a breath, giving his hands a squeeze then pulling her own free and resting them in her lap.  “It’s just rare that I _see_ someone so young but with so little flux in their character.”  She huffed a little laugh.  “You are already very much _yourself_ in a way that most don’t achieve until later in their lives if at all.”

Stiles blinked, taken aback though after a moment’s thought he bet he could venture a guess at what could cause that.

Between losing his mom and being the resident Beacon Hills fuck up he’d had to grow up fast and figure out who he was or be crushed under the weight of his peers.  Adults didn’t like to acknowledge it but kids could be evil, cruel little bastards.  He’d learned and learned _quick_ that he was a target.  The best satisfaction he’d ever gotten was taking the shit they’d tried to belittle and flaunting it, being his truest self whenever possible no matter if he got shoved into an extra wall that day or not for it.

Others would’ve hidden and hunkered down until they could leave their tormentors behind.

Stiles had peacocked.

Never cowed, never bending, never backing down.

Yeah.

He supposed when he thought about it, that would make him very much _himself_.

And be one of the reasons that he was alternately rolling with the punches of the last days and having his head spun by it.

Still, he thought there was more to her reaction than that, but he let it be – for the moment at least.

“It also isn’t everyday that I see a shifter’s animal self manifest in a spirit form.”  Sara added with a smirk.  “Congratulations: you’re a cheetah.”

“A _cheetah?_ ”  Stiles asked, voice jumping an incredulous register at the information.  He’d expected a wild cat of some kind from what Derek had said but still…  _“A cheetah?”_

“Mmm.”  Sara nodded.  “A big, beautiful example of one if your spirit form is any sign.”

Stiles’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times as he tried to get a handle on his shock, fingers rattling against the table and leg jittering hidden beneath the tablecloth.

Honestly: what was he supposed to say to _that_?

Sara continued while her apprentice struggled to pull himself together.

“You can read about them in two of the books the monk had me pull for you and your wolf friend might know or have more references.  If not text or call before you come for your next lesson and I’ll see what I have for you either downstairs or up here.”  She told him briskly, regaining her forthright manner and shaking off the awe at the reminder that yes, he was awesome, but he also was a clueless kid in vast need of guidance before he ended up with a slit-neck to power up some skanky Darach or necromonger.  “As I said already: it’s rare to find a shifter that’s also a practitioner.  Now that I’ve gotten a look at your aura and not just what’s shedding off of you naturally, I’m not surprised at the latter but rather that the Bite took at all instead of just jump-starting you.  The one who bit you must be powerful of their own accord for their Gift to manage it but not so powerful that it would snuff your spark out and force your power into your shifter form.”

“It can do that?”  Stiles perked up, side-tracked.  “I was told it either took or it killed you.”

Sara shrugged, waggling a hand in a see-saw motion.  “That’s because a third alternative happens about as often as a True Alpha among werewolves.”  She continued, ignoring the bright-eyed look _that_ gained her and the mouth likely opening on a new question.  “Another phenomenon you can read about since you’re here to learn to use, shape, and control your magics not learn how to be a shifter.”

He slumped back a bit with a mild pout.

Now _that_ wasn’t fair, tossing teasers out like that and then refusing to pay up.

Unfair or not however, it didn’t keep him from perking back up and tuning in as she continued.

“A spark is just a spark when left alone.”  Sara’s voice was brisk, slipping into teacher-mode.  “It can light a match or start a wildfire depending on it’s strength, how it’s nurtured, how it’s channeled.  A spark is _potential_ , you understand?”  She waited for his eager nod then carried on.  “It is unshaped, unformed, unmolded, little more than raw power.  Some strikes of the flint create weak sparks that die young others strong sparks that light and flare with power.  Needless to say after all else you’ve learned today but you’re the latter in this analogy.  A strong spark leads to strong magics, yes, but it can also make it hard to control and channel, that you’re already leaking your excess magic after only being jump started by the Bite a few days ago speaks to this.”

Stiles tilted his head in consideration.  “Use it or lose it, huh?”

“After a fashion, _yes_.”  Sara conceded.  “Those with smaller talents than you possess will never have to worry about leveling a building calling up a breeze or setting a forest ablaze trying to light a candle.  That can lead, if you don’t learn how to control your magic, to both jealousy and fear.”

“No risk, no reward, right?”  Stiles grinned.  “How do I pull it in to stop leading trails right to me for the bad guys?”

“You said it yourself: use it or lose it.”  Sara told him with a dry butter-wouldn’t-melt tone.  “Right now you’re still in an active state.  You’re young, newly catalyzed, and were given the Gift a few days ago.  Convincing your magic to settle down is going to take more than a few focusing exercises.  That said,” she rose and opened a drawer in the small desk in the corner, taking out a slender column of a stone about as long and wide as her thumb on a braided leather cord.  “This amulet should help shield you from being read and will also serve as a back-up repository for your excess magics once I teach you how to focus them to send or share with a receptacle.”

“What kinds of things can I give magic to?”  Stiles asked as he reached out and took hold of the necklace – _amulet_ – and letting the stone spin as he twisted the leather band to get a good look at the interesting stone with striations in bright and dark greens.  He didn’t recognize it – not that he was a rock hound or jewelry aficionado – meaning research was required…just like everything _else_ he found himself tripping over this week.

Well, at least he wasn’t bored.

“I’m understanding that, right?”  He continued, double checking.  “Sending or sharing magic, that’s basically _giving_ it to something else.”

“Yes and no.”  Sara sat back down and crossed her legs, enjoying teaching a quick study even these most basic concepts.  And they hadn’t really even scratched the surface yet.  “Magic used by practitioners comes from varying sources as I said regarding cost.  An excellent example would be setting up a stone in a sigil for empowerment in a window that receives dawn’s first rays or is bathed in the light of the full moon then using that stone later for spellwork.  With very little exception: power is power and how it’s sourced has little effect on the outcome of a spell.”  She arched a brow.  “The outcome on the _practitioner_ regarding how they harvested the power for said spell, _that_ is a different thing altogether but also has to do with the type of practitioner they are and their ability to buffer against magical backlash.”

“So…”  Stiles turned that over in his mind as he lowered the necklace to rest on the tablecloth before him.  “You mentioned sacrifices earlier.  I’m going to guess that if you do one of those wrong you can deal with massive backlash issues, right?”  That was pop-culture knowledge of magic 101.  “Where if you had the power to do the spell without the sacrifice you wouldn’t have the backlash?”

“If you perform the sacrifice incorrectly: yes.”  Sara smiled.  “Blood magic isn’t for every practitioner and it’s not something that is to be toyed with considering the extreme repercussions that can occur.  But it is a real and powerful form of magical practice.  For the sake of your control, I’ll teach you to give of your magic to a neutral recipient: your amulet, a plant, an animal.  _Do not_ ever give of yourself how I’m about to show you to another person whether you think they’re another practitioner or not.”  She warned him fiercely.  “It leaves you vulnerable in ways you can’t even begin to comprehend as the newest of novices.”

Stiles nodded quickly but before she could get to the lesson had to ask one last question, and it was his favorite of all time: “Why?”

It didn’t make sense to him.  If it was so dangerous, why would she even tell him it could be done in the first place?  Beyond the assumption that he might figure it out – or assume it could be done – for himself.

Which if it was the latter he was kinda stoked that she thought that much of him on so short an acquaintance.

“Beneath your skin,” Sara spoke, tone wavering between ominous and inspired.  “Lays a power to an extent I’ve never seen in a novice.  Or any practitioner without years of training in their chosen path.  Power that could give energy to another.  Could be used to protect or heal them.  However if done wrong, without proper knowledge and understanding, the results could be disastrous not just for them but for you.  Even if the recipient is unharmed, if the power isn’t cleansed properly from their system and the wrong person knew or realized they had it they could follow it back to you and use it against you, even to the point of taking your power or life.”  Her eyes were dark, no longer summer-sky blue but the darkness of a storm swept sea.  “ _That_ is an unacceptable risk for someone with such potential before them to take, do you understand me?”

“But…”

“No.”  Sara was firm, unwavering on this point.  “If you want to learn to protect.  To heal others.  To defend those who cannot defend themselves from the monsters like your Gift-giver that lurk in the dark corners of the hearts of men, then on this point I must have your compliance.  Until I give you leave otherwise, you _will not_ share your power with another.  Not even if you believe it to be life and death.  The cost and consequences are too vast and potentially lethal or far-reaching for me to be willing to teach you otherwise, even with the debt owed to the monk.  Do we have an understanding, Stiles?”

“Yes, Sara.”  Stiles finally agreed long moments of thought later.  “I understand.”

“Good.”  She nodded crisply.  “Now, to do something about that excess power spilling off of you before you overload my wards…”

For his part Stiles cracked a smile then buckled down, listening intently as she walked him step-by-step through the process which sounded more than a little _woo-woo_ but, hey, he’s a spark and apparently a cheetah shifter.

Woo-woo was kinda the name of the game anymore.

…

It was a tired Stiles that shambled out of the front door of _The Seeking Flame_ , the name of the bookshop on the first floor, with a cloth bag clenched in one hand filled with more than the three books the monk had bartered for him and a towering paper cup filled with a hot herbal tisane that smelled of hibiscus petals, orange zest, lemon balm, cloves, lavender, licorice root and something else underneath it that his cheetah nose – _he’s a freaking cheetah! –_ couldn’t quite parse out from the rest but that he thought was a sweetener of some kind.  Tendai, one of the other workers or owners or managers or something of the foursome of shops run by what he now understood was Sara’s coven – and believe him he was going to research the _crap_ out of her and this place when he got home…along with about a hundred other things he’d run headlong into since walking through the door a couple hours ago – had waylaid him as he’d wandered down the spiral stairs with Sara one step ahead of him and already unlocking a case from behind the counter to give him another volume for study along with the three from the monk, another from the _Dancing Flame_ bookshelves upstairs, and a blank leather-bound journal that definitely had thoughts of grimoires and books of shadows running through his head.  Statuesque and only an inch or two shorter than Stiles, the – South African as he’d come to find out through her cheery patter – woman ushered him into _her_ café and genially bullied him into picking out a few pastries, wrapping up an apple turnover, an orange-cranberry-ginger scone, and a chocolate dipped snickerdoodle before she was content with his selections as the tisane – _tisane not tea, she’d clucked her tongue in disapproval.  Herbal tea_ was not _tea he was told firmly_ – steeped, promising to give him a gentle boost of energy without the spike and crash of caffeine and sugar.

The cloth shopping bag was made of the same thick sailcloth as the upstairs separation curtain and tablecloth though it didn’t have the metallic striping, and at nearly the size of a large duffle bag Sara had slipped in more than a couple supplementary books and a journal to tide him over until he was able to return next week.

As it was Sara wasn’t _thrilled_ with weekly sessions and had side-eyed him _hard_ when he’d made it clear he just didn’t have more room to come see her for them between school, extracurriculars, and the two-hour – in good traffic – round trip to San Francisco, having originally been making plans to see him three times a week before he’d had to step in and bring her back down to earth with the reality that new apprentice or not, he was still just a sixteen-year-old guy and couldn’t make the trip so often without drawing attention.

Besides which, there was the issue of needing his dad’s commuter car for it and gas money to fund the trips to and from the city since Stiles’s job as a yoga instructor was only one class one day a week – hardly the stuff of a teenager’s dreams of endless cash, most of it poured into keeping Roscoe running.

No, she’d had to content herself with tiring him out as much as was safe with practicing energy transfer with his new amulet, the results of which – a nearly-glowing pendant with light green striations that popped with color against the darker green stone and shuffling steps from Stiles – had led to Tendai’s pouncing on him like he’d imagine Derek after a bunny rabbit or juicy deer.

Unlocking his dad’s car, Stiles set the to-go cup in the holder and the wrapped goodies next to it before eyeing the large cloth bag.  His fingers itched to unearth just what Sara had deemed _appropriate_ to send him home with for the next week – or just in general – after waving off all notion of payment from Stiles.  The monk must have done one hell of a favor for her was all he could think.  Especially after Sara had made it clear that it was the responsibility of the mentor to provide the tools and books and whatnot for their student.

Itching fingers and curious mind aside, he set the bag on the passenger side floor board well out of reach.

He didn’t have time to lose himself in reading or geeking out over the knowledge now in his possession.

Lest he forget that not only was his dad at home waiting on him but a wolfy house guest as well.

One, unless he’d seriously misread Derek, that had likely had his limited well of patience _seriously_ tested by Scott and in need of defusing before the Full Moon tomorrow.

Yeah, Stiles had his marching orders for the night – whether self-directed or not – and they unfortunately didn’t include getting lost in old books about magic and shifters.

Damn it.

…

Stiles wasn’t surprised when his dad was gone when he got home that night, kendo nights were the ones Noah was most likely to pick for taking a late shift at the department so one of his deputies could spend time with their families since Stiles wouldn’t be around anyway, though he also wasn’t expecting to have Derek on his heels as he carried his load of kendo equipment and magic books/supplies upstairs from the garage.

“You smell like witches.”  Was the older shifter’s explanation for the clear and egregious disregard for Stiles’s personal bubble.

Derek had _no idea_ how close he’d come to a butt-sniffing joke thanks to him nearly plastering himself onto Stiles’s backside as the younger shifter maneuvered his stuff and himself up the stairs and into his room, the wolf coming to the kitchen entryway when Stiles almost crashed through the garage door – he may be stronger than pre-Bite but that didn’t make a couple of duffle bags any less bulky to finagle – and flaring as he took in the scent surrounding Stiles before dogging – _heh dogging_ – the younger shifter’s steps all the way into his room.

“Yeah.”  Stiles shrugged, slowly working his way towards an explanation as he set his kendo gear bag in his closet and the cloth magic-stuff one on his bed.  “Got to take a bit of a journey thanks to an old monk that – apparently – can _See_ shit.”

Derek frowned, hearing the emphasis there, before asking for clarification as Stiles peeled out of his red hoodie and tossed it over the back of his desk chair before plopping into it with an inelegant sprawl that was all long limbs and sharp elbows.

“You met a Seer?”

That was odd, even by supernatural standards.

Seers didn’t just introduce themselves to random shifters and send them on a “journey” like Stiles said he’d gone on.

Though how much of a journey he _could have_ gone on in a handful of hours was the question.

And Derek thought his day had been packed.

At least it hadn’t been co-opted by usually-frustrating witches and perennially-irritating Seers.

Stiles was back in one piece, as far as Derek could tell, so at least they weren’t the sort of witches that would enjoy a shifter-skin pelt for their floor or their bones and blood to power their magics.

“On Monday, apparently.”  Stiles sighed, lifting his arms over his head and enjoying the soft _pop_ from his shoulders before lowering them and shaking them out, then straightening up and firing up his computer.  “A monk that likes to wander around and stick his nose into other people’s shit.”  Twisting in place he reached into the hoodie pocket for the postcard Sara had returned to him before he left her shop – or shops he wasn’t quite clear on that whole thing yet – and offered it to the older shifter.  “Sent me to meet a, a, _High Priestess_ named Sara.”  Stiles’s voice lowered to a grumble, though one easily heard by shifter-senses.  “Though of _what_ other than her coven I still don’t know.”

Bringing up four Google search screens, Stiles typed in the names of the four shops, using those as a place to begin, then as an afterthought a fifth with a combination of the building address and “Sara” and sent them running before turning back to Derek with a spin of his chair.

“How did things go with Scott?”

Derek snorted, rolling his eyes as he studied the seemingly-simple postcard, lifting it to take a deep breath and getting a lot of _Stiles_ thanks to the teen keeping it in his hoodie pocket, faint traces of others who’ve handled it, and underneath a deep, sunk-in scent of a bookshop all paper and leather and ink with faint hints of magic clinging to it in beeswax, herbs, and the _other_ that was hard to vocalize but was simply what Derek associated with magic and hit a register similar to – but not the same as – the ozone of sharp electricity or a lightning strike.

A scent, now that he’d been reminded of it, that Stiles had clinging to his skin beneath the funk of teenaged boy in high school, shifter, and medication alongside his natural scent that to Derek was cinnamon and honey but to another shifter could be something else entirely.

And came even heavier from the bag he’d tossed down on his bed and the necklace – a new addition – around his neck.

“That great huh?”  Stiles noted with a wry grin.  “He still being a stubborn shit?”

“Pretty much.”  Derek shrugged, flicking the postcard in a precise flex of his wrist and fingers that had it landing calligraphy-up on top of the bag on the bed.  “Might’ve gotten through to him.  Hard to say.  Magic?  Witches?”  He prompted Stiles in turn.

“The Seer I met on Monday left me that,” he nodded towards the postcard.  “With my kendo instructor and in turn led me to a magic shop in Fisherman’s Wharf.  According to the high priestess or whatever of their coven, said-seer traded on favors they/she owed him to get me books and training because I’m a weird combination of shifter and novice magic person?”  Stiles’s voice rose in pitch through the explanation as Derek’s frown deepened, ending almost on a squeak at the bladder-weakening-terrifying expression the wolf wore by the time he was done with the short of it.

“You’re a _spark_.”  Derek told him with a tone of satisfied realization, expression shifting back to blank.  “And managed to hold onto your power through the Bite instead of channeling it into it.”  He smirked.  “Contrary brat, aren’t you?”

“Hey!”  Stiles protested weakly with a soft pout.  “It wasn’t like it was _on purpose_.”

Derek rolled his expressive hazel eyes.  “That just makes it _worse_ , not better.”  He said with a harrumph.  “Smith She-Wolves are sometimes born with a spark in addition to their wolf, but other than that you’ll usually only ever run into cats with the ability for both.”

Stiles frowned thoughtfully.  “Sara told me that the Alpha who bit me had to be powerful enough to overpower the spark to force the Bite to take and not just jumpstart it but not _so_ powerful to snuff it out and force the power to channel into my shifter-self.”

“From a witch’s perspective that makes the most sense.”  Derek informed him with an arched brow.  “But you’re not a witch – not yet and maybe not ever depending on what you do with your spark.  You’re a shifter given the Gift who managed to keep their spark.”

Amber eyes narrowed as Stiles cocked his head to the side in thought then made a guess based on what he’d been told by both Sara and Derek.

“Is it possible that my _self_ , which included a spark whether I was aware of it or not, guided the Bite into turning me into a shifter able to use magic?”  He offered then added, having been through one too many discoveries today for it to be the first thing on his mind with all the other crap cluttering it up: “which is a cheetah, apparently.”

“A cheetah?”  Derek’s face showed his shock for a long moment then smoothed back out, studying the lanky form of the teen contemplatively.  Actually, given his build…that made a _lot_ of sense with those long limbs of his.  “Yeah, I’d say that’s a possibility.”

“Why?”  Stiles flailed at that easy agreement after a long look.

Derek smirked.  “Research your full-cheetah kin and you’ll figure it out.”  He told him unsympathetic to the whine that got him.  “But be careful with magic.”  He warned him before ducking out.  He needed a run.  “Shifters aren’t the only ones with hunters after them, and magic users aren’t as live-and-let-live as shifters either.”

“Aww…”  Stiles drawled, beaming.  “I knew you cared!”

“Whatever…”  Derek snorted, voice gruff.

“Don’t be such a sourwolf!”  Stiles called to his back.  “You know I’m growing on you!”

“Yeah…”  Floated up to Stiles’s enhanced ears.  “Like a fungus!”

“Don’t hate, Sourwolf!”  Stiles cackled with glee as he caught the sound of soft steps loping towards the woods.

Derek’s face might not have shown it but he _knew_ he got a smile out of him.

His eyes gave him away.

Spinning around in his chair for a long moment, he eventually stopped and hopped up, eyeing the bag on the bed.

He was in need of more sustenance before diving into all of _that_.

Sending his excess power into the stone around his neck might have helped with keeping predatory practitioners from hunting him but it’d also made him hungry as _hell_ , Tendai’s snacks having been an excellent stopgap but they were quickly wearing away.

A glance at the clock had him sketching out a rough plan.

Snack, a bit of research into Sara and her shop – and coven if he could swing it -, then a dip into the goodie bag Sara gave him.

At the very least he wanted to get an idea of which he needed to tackle first, even if in true Stiles-fashion he was probably going to end up jumping into all of them at once and moving between them.

Habits could be hard to break.

ADHD or not, Stiles had had _years_ to grind home his study methods.

Cured or not, time spent like that left its mark and might be a lost cause for teaching him how to do research in a linear fashion instead of jumping from thing-to-thing-to-thing as his mind takes him.

At least tomorrow he could skip his recent morning routine of Adderall-headache-hating life.

Another tally for the Pro side of the shifter column.

One that was balanced by the realization that if his meds didn’t work on him then caffeine wasn’t going to either but, meh.

You win some you lose some.

…


	5. Chapter 5

** Apex Predators **

_Warning for this chapter:  All the Derek Feels, Stiles internal-monologuing/struggling with issues of sexuality and romantic attraction._

**Chapter Five: Howl**

“Hey Uncle Peter.”

Derek lowered himself down to sit on the floor of the hospital room, looking up into the scarred face of his last remaining family the morning of the full moon.

His nose wrinkled at his inability to find even a hint of what had been Peter’s scent from…from _before_ under the layers of antiseptic, sickness, and blood that permeated the building.  Leaning forward, he buried his nose in the crook of his uncle’s neck, breathing deep and long until he finally found it – found _him_ – under it all.  One hand rose to hook around the back of Peter’s neck, holding him close.  The other rested softly on the lax hands the orderly or maybe an aide had arranged in a cupped position in Peter’s lap.

An uncontrolled sob escaped from his lips.

And after days of holding it all together, there in the absent embrace of the last member of his family, of his _pack_ no matter what Laura had done, Derek broke down under the waves of grief and loss that’d threatened to subsume him since his bond to Laura snapped without warning mere days before.

…

It could’ve been minutes or hours since that first sob escaped his control.

Werewolf physiology didn’t exactly leave him prone to the aches and pains that affected humans, no throbbing knees or pins-and-needles in his legs to warn him that he’d been in one place too long to force him to move from his grief.

Not until the first wave of it was done crashing him down and allowed him to surface, his hand that had held Peter’s own lifting and wiping away the evidence of his tears from his face.

Pressing a kiss to one scruffy jaw, Derek rose and went over to the box of tissues resting on the bedside table away from where his uncle rested in his wheelchair in the wide bow windows, pleased – if that was the word for it – that his family’s money had paid for what passed for a comfortable private room even if Peter wasn’t truly cognizant of it.

Taking a closer look around as he wiped away the rest of his tears and mucus from his cathartic cry, Derek recognized pictures that had to be doubles – likely from either Peter’s law office or home – of ones that used to hang in his family’s home, as well as pictures drawn in a childish hand and cards declaring things like “Happy Friendship Day!” or the simple kids’ Valentines cards hung around the room and cluttering Peter’s dresser.

Six years’ worth if he had to guess.

There was no need to guess at from whom they’d come though he hadn’t gotten the impression from Stiles that the visits had gone on so long.

From what Derek could tell…the kid had to have been visiting Peter since not long after the fire from the dates on some of the drawings.

Like Derek _would have been_ if not for Laura… _no_.

No, he wasn’t going to do that.  Not anymore.  Not after returning here had cost Laura her life.

He couldn’t be angry with her anymore, for refusing to return at least.

Though looking had his uncle in his wheelchair, the anger over cutting him from their pack was still alive and well as even without contact and being across the country Peter would’ve been better than _this_ after six years for his healing ability to work on him when bolstered by having an Alpha and packmate, no matter how distant.

Coming back to kneel to put him on eye-level with his uncle, resting on his haunches, Derek studied blank blue eyes that seemed to have a glimmer of _something_ behind them through whether it was wishful thinking or not Derek couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Reaching out, Derek rested his hands on Peter’s establishing a physical connection in faint hope that the familial bond would help his uncle even if as a pair of Omegas now there was little chance that he could coax a pack bond back to life between them.  Gods.  It was only Derek’s touch in the first place when he’d first entered that had allowed a bit of life back into their family bonds when they’d been savaged by the severing of their pack bonds by their Alpha, as the two tended to be tightly wound together when family or friends who had attachment bonds between them were packmates.

Their family bond might not be much in the wake of years of separation especially with the damage it’d taken but it was _something_.

Of the two of them Derek wasn’t sure which of them needed it more.

“He must visit here a lot.”  Derek began after searching for long moments on where to start or what to say to him in a bit of a last-ditch effort that there really _was_ something behind those blank eyes besides the ashes of Derek’s hopes.  “I was able to scent you in his room last night and I can barely pick you up under all the cleaners and crap in the air.” 

Derek chewed on his cheek, a thoughtful frown on his face.  “Must get close to you too.”  He blew out a breath.  “I’m glad.  I’m _so damn glad_ you had that, Uncle Peter.  Had someone to touch and ground you and _care_.  Which,” he cast an impressed gaze around the room, spying out all the little touches that were as far from _hospital sterile_ as it was possible to be.  “He clearly does.  I remember him, Stiles, some from before.  Remember he’d come around with his Mom to the house.”  Derek frowned, trying to remember.  “I’m pretty sure she was friends with Uncle Dom, the two of them talking in a language that sounded like gibberish while Noah shared a beer with Uncle Luke.  Yeah.”  Derek shook his head.  “That sounds about right.  Can’t believe it took me almost a week to remember after seeing the Sheriff again.  He is, still.”  Derek said, trying to think of anything and everything to tell his uncle.  “I don’t know if Stiles talks about that though from what I’ve seen of him Stiles talks about _everything_.” 

A muscle in his jaw flexed and released then Derek bit the bullet and told him.  “Laura came here, I don’t know if you remember seeing her but the visitor log said she came.”  He swallowed.  “She’s gone, Uncle Peter.”  His voice went arctic.  “Someone killed her but Noah hasn’t said how, just that he’s opened a case on her.  It’s why I came, I was going to find who or what killed her and…”  He shook his head.  “It’s not so simple anymore.  There’s a rogue Alpha in the preserve.  Two kids’ve been bitten already.  Scott McCall – I don’t know if he’s ever come to visit you with Stiles or not but that’s Stiles’s best friend.  And Stiles,” a heavy sigh.  “Stiles was bitten too.  He’s not a wolf though,” Derek rolled his eyes with a chuckle.  “Kid had to defy the odds on that.  Looks like he might be a cheetah of all fucking things.  Obstinate little shit.”  Derek qualified that.  “Not as bad as his friend as far as I can tell.  I’ve been helping – or trying to help – Scott but it’s in one ear and out the other as far as I can tell.”

Squeezing his hands around Peter’s Derek tried to think of what else to tell him before the nurse’s aide came to take him for a shower like he heard them talking at the nurses’ desk trying to give him as much time as they could afford to spend with his uncle without completely screwing up their routine and duties.

“I’m staying, Uncle Peter.”  He finally said it, as much for himself as to his captive audience of one.  “Noah’s started the process to turn the Trust over to me and your power of attorney paperwork.  I always was going to come back.”  He grinned, ducking his head bashfully even if there wasn’t anyone to see him but his catatonic uncle.  “I don’t know if Laura said or if Noah’s been keeping tabs on me and reporting to you but I finished my degree last year.  SUNY Bachelor of Science in Environmental and Ecosystem Sciences with a minor in Forestry then I picked up a certificate in Conservation Land Management.”  He chuckled.  “Guess I really did take after Dad.  Trees I get, people…”  He shrugged.  “My advisor wanted me to consider getting a master’s but now that I’m home,” he took a long look out of the windows that faced the preserve.  “Going back isn’t really in the cards even if there wasn’t an Alpha out there somewhere making problems and drawing hunters.”

Standing up as he heard the nurse’s aide move towards the room, he lifted his hands to his uncle’s shoulders feeling the muscles there that remained strong despite years in his unmoving state.  Good to know that the fees for his care did more than supply a decent room but physical therapy as well.  Maybe Stiles helped with that.  It would definitely explain the sent of _Peter_ on the younger shifter’s dirty clothes.

Derek pressed a kiss to his uncle’s forehead then nodded at the sweet-looking older woman with a healthy amount of silver streaking her ash-blonde hair.

“I’ll be back, Uncle Peter.”  Lowering his right hand back to Peter’s own, he linked their pinkies in an age-old promise between an uncle and nephew who were more of an age to be brothers than anything with a mere eight years between them.  “Promise.”  Before letting go and stepping away to speak to his aide.

“He’s been better this last week.”  The soft-spoken aide told him.  “He’s always been able to respond to stimuli to eat, toilet, lifting an arm or leg on command.”  She filled him in, the hospital having a long-standing order to disclose details of Peter’s care to his niece or nephew should they turn up and inquire.  “Usually he’d be more responsive after one of Stiles’s visits: bearing some of his weight during transfers, needing less stimuli to eat or toilet.  Since your sister came just over a week ago he’s been like that all the time not just for a day or so.”  She confided.  “I know there’s not a lot of good science behind it but I really do think that he knows you’re here.  That he’s not alone.”

“Thank you.”  Derek nodded, taking that in calmly with no sign that her words were like a knife to his chest.  Responsive.  He’s been more responsive since Laura saw him.  _Fuck_.  As if he’d needed anymore reasons to feel guilty.  “For taking such good care of him.”

She nodded, already moving towards her patient as Derek showed himself out of the room.

He’d already had one breakdown in there today.

He was going to pass on another, no matter how well deserved.

…

Stiles swore to the sky and back that if it weren’t for Scotty needing him to help keep him from outing them at school thanks to the Full Moon coming that night he’d blow off school for a “mental health day” which was an awesome thing his dad let him do once in a while when he really needed it, to bury himself head-first in the tomes he’d been loaded up with.

He was one hundred percent certain that the only reason he’d managed to get to bed before the wee hours of the morning was habit from years of training himself to not stay up beyond midnight if he could at all help it on a school night.

ADHD was _not fun_ when it came to wanting to say fuck it to his routine since the fallout was so much _not worth it_ and now it was such a built-in pattern that Stiles wasn’t going to start fighting it until he’d gotten a handle on his new upgrades.

Really though…did he kill a leprechaun in another life?

That was one of the only reasons he could see for having such shitty luck to the point of not only being attacked and bitten by an Alpha werewolf – a creature that a week ago he didn’t even know _existed_ – but also having said-bite serve as a catalyst to his, apparently, considerable latent magical talents.

Fuck his life.

It was awesome shit, don’t get him wrong.

But it was also shit that had him wanting to hide under his bed until the end of forever so there was that, especially since he’d managed last night to scan his new books for a couple of things Sara had said, looking for clarification and _holy shit he’d gotten it_.

Specifically on the different types of magic practitioners and what ones might think that a powerful spark – like, say, _Stiles_ apparently was – would make a nummy treat.

Necromongers scared the ever-loving shit out of him with their using magic to control and/or raise the _dead_ which included the ability to use another magic person’s hair, nails, or bodily fluids to _rip their power from their body_.

Freaked him the fuck out yes but only marginally less than the entry on Darachs.

A sect of dark druids who could – and did – use unwilling sacrifices of, well, _everything_ from the smallest animals to grown _people_ to fuel their magic.

And he’d thought shifters were scary.

Not even close to some of the types of practitioners he’d read about last night and that had only been an overview.

Sara had gifted him with two tomes in addition to the three paid for by his Wandering Monk NPC bringing his stack of supernatural books up to five from his former goose egg.

His mentor’s picks being: _The Witch’s Way_ , a primer on basic magic including a historical overview of different types of magic and how they can be blended together by a witch which seemed to be a genderless catch-all title for a magical practitioner that could use more than one type of magic; and _Basic Casting_ which was pretty much what it said on the tin: a starter-novice level book on basic spell casting which from what he could tell was one of the specific magic “paths” with someone who focused mainly on spell casting being known, suitably, as a Caster.

Stiles was alternately freaking out and laughing over the fact that things like Casters, Witches, and Necromongers were now working their way into his vocabulary outside of online role playing sci-fi/fantasy games or fiction.

Somehow _magic_ being a thing was a monumental degree of weirdness above and beyond shifters.

While his Wandering Monk NPC favored: _The Book of Lore_ , which after a skim was a type of supernatural encyclopedia slash bestiary; _The Children of Sekhmet_ , a slim volume dedicated to feline shifters whose counterparts were African based like werelion’s and Stiles’s own werecheetah; and last a thick, handwritten tome with engraved illustrations that Stiles was almost afraid to _breathe on_ let alone touch that had no title but seemed to be an old family compilation of magic designed primarily to teach based on the simple-to-difficult organization of the information but unlike the two books Sara had given him wasn’t dedicated – he thought – to any one magical discipline.

Both _The Witch’s Way_ and the handwritten primer had backed up Sara’s first lesson on sending/giving magic so at least he had that going for him: his NPC hadn’t led him astray thus far or walked him straight into the lion’s den though he still had work to do on the “coven” he’d landed in the lap of before he’d be completely at ease.

Well, completely at ease once the sense of _warmth-welcome-safety_ had worn off from being in their shop.

He was pretty sure that was part of the wards Sara had mentioned.

Which made sense for a quartet of shops like theirs…keeping people friendly and cozy probably helped tons with sales as well as making sure no one started shit in front of whatever normies wandered in off of the Wharf for a bagel or whatever instead of those in the “know” about what went on upstairs.

Despite what Stiles had thought, it was the handwritten tome that Sara had taken out of the locked case.  Tricky witch had likely taken one glance at the books Monk NPC had wanted for him and slipped in _Basic Casting_ instead of the compilation until she could get her own read on him.  Smart of her.  Stiles liked that about her, that she – despite the impression she’d probably given him intentionally – hadn’t just gone along with that Monk NPC had wanted, favors owed or not.  He appreciated smarts and cunning, which explained quite a bit about the torch he’d carried for Lydia until he’d finally killed it dead after watching one too many make-out sessions post-lacrosse between her and Jackson thanks to him showing up to support Scotty whenever it didn’t conflict with his own activities.

Smart, cunning, and beautiful: it was official Stiles’s perfect woman was Natasha Romanoff.

Of course that description also applied to Tony Stark but he didn’t really want to focus on that considering all the other shit going on in his life right now.

It probably was a symptom of how screwed up it was in Stiles’s head that coming out as a combination of a shifter and a spark to his dad was marginally less frightening than coming out as bi and having his dad possibly-maybe dismissing it or blowing him off or having a much _worse_ reaction.

Realistically his dad would probably just get uncomfortable and pat him on the head before running off to Mama McCall for a lesson on how to handle his now-openly-bi son but that bit of _realism_ didn’t mean much in the face of Stiles’s tendency to focus on the worst-case scenario.

Although real-talk Stiles wasn’t sure if he _was_ strictly bisexual or something else but lacking any kind of sexual action _ever_ he couldn’t really say one way or another.

He was bi-romantic at least.

That much was locked in if not maybe even more flexible than that bumping him up to panromantic since he had nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for the stories of trans-fluid-neutral-bi-queer-gendered people out there.

At least being a cheetah shifter – while weird – was pretty cut-and-dry.

He now had drives, instincts, and urges pertaining to his new state of being that might seem strange but when he looked through the scope of shifters, full-cheetahs, and cheetah-shifters were logical and made a certain amount of sense.

 _Nothing_ about sexuality and romantic attraction was clean or clear-cut especially not at sixteen.

“Hey dude.”  Stiles greeted his best bro as Scott pedaled up to the front of the school, having adjusted to being able to spot the other boy – and smell him – from a lot longer away than he could before Monday.  “How’d, ah, _practice_ ,” he decided after a glance around them at the other high schoolers.  “Go with Derek yesterday?”

Given the bitch-face on his best bro, Stiles was going to go with _not that great_ even if Derek’s review of the event had been less-than-glowing.

 _Wolves_.

Apparently, wolves and young male wolves in particular, managed best with a buffer, something he’d picked out of the synopsis on werewolves in _The Book of Lore_ and some Google-fu on wolf pack behavior.

Who knew?

That didn’t, however, mean that Stiles was _totally stoked_ that his new job seemed to be playing peacekeeper between a pair of werewolves who hadn’t yet reached an agreement on their status quo.  Hierarchy was important to shifters, something he’d found in both _The Book of Lore_ and _Children of Sekhmet_ , but was significant to those that lived in groups more than others such as wolves, wild dogs, hyenas – _there were werehyenas! –_ and lions.  Leaving Stiles, who as a male cheetah could apparently take-or-leave having a social group which for his _species – he now lived a life including knowing his animal species –_ was called a coalition, and therefore gave no shits about their posturing to keep them from killing each other.

After devouring the section on cheetahs from the _Children of Sekhmet_ and the wiki page on full-cheetahs, which was apparently how shifters differentiated between shifter-animals and actual animals, Stiles had gotten the sense that his “inner cat” didn’t really give much of a shit about anything beyond having enough to eat and maintaining a territory.

He was also from the fastest shifter species, which he couldn’t _wait_ to try out on Scott, had the best daytime eyesight, and thanks to the combination of sly intelligence and agility was supposed to be the escape artists of the shifter world.

Wolves in general were known for their protectiveness and ferocity like Derek had told him/alluded to.

Cheetahs were the skilled day hunters in contrast with other species and thanks to their speed the hardest to capture by hunters.

Trade-offs, from what Stiles could tell, was very much a part of the shifter world and acted as a sort of incentive for the many and diverse species to get along since a group of several species would be hard – if not impossible – to take down with one species covering the weaknesses of another and vice-versa.

Especially since when it came to weaknesses there were quite a few depending on the species that a hunter that knew what they were doing could exploit.

“I got tossed around.”  Scott told him, picking up on Stiles’s hedging for anyone who might be listening.  “A lot.”

“Did it help?”

Scott tilted his head in contemplation then shrugged.  “It…didn’t not?”

“That’s something at least.”  Stiles clapped one hand on Scott’s shoulder as they walked through the herds of smelly _– shit were they smelly more of them needed to learn about daily showers.  Twice daily showers.  Something… -_ high schoolers towards their lockers that thanks to bribes of brownies and Scott’s puppy dog eyes were side-by-side despite their last names being so far apart on the school register.  He also manfully ignored when Scott leaned in and scented him at their lockers, since Scott didn’t go so far as to actually bury his nose in the curve of Stiles’s neck, and then finished the little wolfy-ritual by clasping his shoulder and brushing his thumb down his friend’s neck.

 _Wolves were weird_.

“I got some more info while I was in San Fran yesterday so we might want to take lunch out on the bleachers or something.”

And get wolf-boy away from the masses since Stiles could almost _see_ Scott’s hackles raise when a couple of freshmen wandered by chattering and laughing at what would be an annoying level of noise without their enhanced senses.

“Yeah, sure.”  Scott shrugged, dropping his hand from Stiles and picking out his book and binder for first period.  “You remembered that I’m going to be out with Allison on Sunday, right?  So no scheduling time with Derek or whatever…”

“Hey!”  Stiles protested with a flail of his hands and a mulish expression.  “Who is your best friend?”

“You are…”

“Do you really think your _best friend_ would let _Derek_ block you like that?”

“No…”

“There you are.”  Stiles nodded in satisfaction.  “No matter what Grumpy Eyebrows says or argues or whatever I will keep him busy on Sunday and away from messing up your date.  As long…”

Scott groaned, throwing his head back dramatically.  There it was.  The catch.

You’d think he’d know better than angle for a favor from Stiles after all these years as his best bro but occasionally he forgot that being Stiles’s best bro didn’t come with a get-out-of-owing-him clause depending on the mood he was in.

“As long,” Stiles repeated, narrowing amber eyes on his newly en-wolfed brother-from-another-mother.  “As you come through tonight and don’t get distracted or try to fuck off to Lydia’s party or whatever.  You’re hanging with me and Grumpy Eyebrows: no excuses.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Scott sighed, shoulders slumping.  “I got it.  No moonlit prowling, Derek kinda made a point of beating in why that’d be a bad idea yesterday.”

“Good.”  Stiles nodded decisively.  “Hog-tying is still on the menu you know…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

…

Sitting on the cold metal bleachers as he watched Scott run them doing high-knee steps, Stiles found himself ecstatic that being a cheetah came with a different set of dramatics than being a wolf.

Case in point: Scott being so wound up from the first half of the school day on the full moon that he had to run it off before he flashed eye-flare or fangs in class.

He was just happy that Jimmy Johns delivered to the school during lunch hour or else his best bro would’ve been lost and useless to the demands of his stomach since the smell of cafeteria pizza would’ve driven them outside from the stink of chemicals if they didn’t already have plans to eat outside anyway.  Besides which, there was no way either of them would’ve been able to get enough meat from picking at the salad bar compared to extra portions available on fresh French bread from the sandwich shop.  In the end to play it safe, Stiles had ended up ordering both of them two sandwiches even with the extra meat and cheese.  If nothing else and he couldn’t finish his second sub he knew Scotty would down it no problem.

Especially after having to run for the first forty minutes after one look at his buddy had Stiles ordering him to the locker room to change back into his gym clothes and to get running while he ordered and waited for their lunch to arrive.

Whistling softly, Stiles jerked his head towards the locker room in wordless command, peeling open the first of his subs with their turkey-bacon-avocado deliciousness and taking an obnoxious sip from his soda while he waited on his best bro, picking up his sandwich and taking a massive bite as the wolf glanced around for witnesses before clearing the steps up to Stiles three at a time and plopping himself down to snatch up the first of his own sandwiches.

“What else did you learn yesterday besides to run me to bleed off my new and improved wolf temper?”  Scott asked, then took a bite just as obnoxiously large as Stiles’s taunting one had been.

“I’m magic besides being a cheetah, mostly.”  Stiles supplied with a shrug between large bites of bread and fillings and slurps of soda.

“Really?”  Scott blinked, then shrugged.  At this point Stiles could probably present a convincing argument for the moon being made out of cheese and he’d believe it until proof otherwise was handed over.  What with him being right about the werewolf thing and all.  “How does that work?”

“That’s it?”  Stiles frowned at the remains of his sub before bolting it down and unwrapping number two.  Guess there wasn’t going to be leftovers for Scotty boy after all.  Not that he really needed it since he’d gotten the meatiest thing on the JJ menu and skipped the veggies the heathen carnivore wolf that he was.  Or, you know, a teenage boy that wasn’t obsessed like Stiles with healthy food thanks to his dad’s family history of heart disease and not-good cholesterol number on his last physical.  “No other commentary?”

“I could come up with some if it makes you feel better.”  Scott offered selflessly.  “But Derek already explained about Emissaries being magic users who work with packs in between basic wolf etiquette and throwing me into walls while “sparring” to try and find my anchor so…”

“Damn it.”  Stiles pouted a moment then got over it.  “I wanted to see your face when you found out magic was real.  I’m pretty sure mine looked like I got smacked in the face with a fish.”

“If the smirk on Grumpy Brows was anything to go by I think mine was too.”  Scott admitted.

“How’d that even come up?”

“Explaining pack structure to go with the basic etiquette.”  Scott finished his first sub and started on the second, speaking between bites just like Stiles.  “He really knows a lot of stuff.”

“Should,” Stiles mused.  “Being born a wolf and all.  That’s probably one of the frustrating things about dealing with us: we have to have things explained that he’s known since he was a little puppy.”

“Dude.”  Scott frowned, shaking his head.  “Negative on the dog jokes man.  I guess wolves _really_ don’t like being compared to dogs.”

“Found out the hard way, huh?”

“Let’s just say there’s a wall at a warehouse in the industrial district that’ll never be the same again…”  Scott winced.  “Anyway, magic plus cheetah?  How?”

“It goes something like this…”

…

If there was one perk – that used to suck – about his best-friend being a wolf shifter with a bit of a lunatic disorder it was that since their parents worked either in law enforcement or the ER they always picked up the night shift during the full moon since no matter what science could prove or disprove about it, anecdotal evidence was strong for the crazies coming out under the bright light of the moon and causing problems for law enforcement that the Sheriff preferred to handle himself and filled the emergency room calling for the best hands to be on deck, hands that included Mama McCall.

As a result, especially with Derek staying with the Stilinskis until the Trust paperwork cleared and he got the keys to the houses out on the Preserve – he apparently had decided to leave the rentals under the control of a property management company Stiles learned through accidental cheetah-hearing fueled eavesdropping – they were able to hunker down in the Stilinski basement rather than worry about the wolves running around in the preserve with a crazy Alpha and possibly-maybe hunters or them using one of the empty buildings Derek owned like the warehouse and Scott possibly-maybe escaping.

Plus, the Stilinski house harkened from the Cold War era and came complete with a bomb-proof – in theory – bunker taking up half the basement so win-win.

Not only would Scott have a problem escaping _but_ it was also sound proof, so the Sheriff wouldn’t be getting any calls from the neighbors about wolves running around the neighborhood.

Derek wasn’t down – originally – for Stiles to hang with them all night.

Derek could suck a lemon because there was no freaking _way_ Stiles was going to let his best bro be locked up all night without doing whatever he could to make it better for him.

Besides which it wasn’t like Stiles was completely _human_ anymore.

Cheetah shifters may not have the sheer bulk and strength of lions and tigers from what Stiles had read but they weren’t human-frail either.

Stiles could handle a moon-riled Scotty if his bro slipped his restraints – supplied by Derek and Stiles was _not_ going to ask no matter how much the question danced on the tip of his tongue – and there was no way that a wolf could beat him to the door let alone get it unlocked before cheetah-Stiles could toss him back.

Having him there was a _benefit_ not a detriment even if Stiles had had to have a hissing argument – Stiles in the kitchen prepping dinner: salmon fillets, stir-fry veggies, and rice with sauce; while Derek was up in “his” room – with the big lug until the sourwolf caved to his awesomeness and logic.

Scott was already twitchy by the time Stiles’s dad left for his shift at the department, only Derek damn-near sitting on him upstairs in Stiles’s room keeping him from pacing laps around the house until they could move down to the basement.

Stiles had cleared the place out with help from the two wolves after school and before his dad had returned for his break between his day shift doing admin work and his night shift running all over Beacon Hills keeping crazies and drunks under control, the three stopping while the older man napped in his recliner and Stiles made dinner.  Listening closely, as soon as they lost the sound of the cruiser to distance Stiles ran around the downstairs zipping at cheetah speed – which was cool as shit – between the front and back doors to ensure they were locked and closing up the house for the night, planning to keep his lamp and tv on in his room so no one got suspicious – nosy neighbors – about the darkened house, meanwhile Derek took Scott downstairs to the bunker and locked up.  It wasn’t like it was a barren wasteland to spend the night either.

Thanks to a bit of emergency prep his dad had picked up over the years the bunker was semi-furnished plus a stock of supplies, the latter of which had to be moved – temporarily – to the basement to keep Scott from tearing them up if he got loose.

They stripped the mattresses from the trio of cots, stacking them against the clear span of floor where Derek had tested bolts from what – Stiles thought anyway – had once anchored a big freezer or something before using them to connect up his wolf-safe (in theory) restraints for Scott to rest on and be as comfortable as they could make him with the whole, you know, having to be restrained thing.  Scott bitched, but Derek managed to get him locked up with little to-do while Stiles collected a couple things to keep them semi-entertained while keeping watch over the baby wolf.  Books, puzzles, cellphones, and snacks and they were set.

The bunker already had a working bathroom that his dad had never seen the point of disconnecting though Stiles had to clean the place once a week or it got _rank_ and lights so it wasn’t like camping out in one of Derek’s warehouses or whatever would be.

In fact, despite the fussing were-teen chained in the center of the bunker common room – Stiles couldn’t think of a better word for the space – it was almost homey for a bolt-hole.

Stiles nudged the door closed behind him and latched it, setting his load of entertainment and munchies on the metal side-table-thing by the single couch that had a – Stiles almost swallowed his tongue in boner-induced shock – near-naked sourwolf sprawled out on it.

Just in time as Derek and Scott both turned towards what had to be moon rise and almost fell into their beta shift for Scott – and had Stiles flailing and dropping straight onto his ass – a massive black wolf with blue eyes for Derek, the two giving a mournful howl in unison.

“Woah.”  Stiles blinked then climbed back up to his feet as Derek – Wolf-Derek? – gave him a snooty look before jumping back up onto the couch and snagging the shorts he’d been wearing before trotting off to the bathroom and nudging the door closed behind him before the snarls and growls coming from Scott.  “I _did not_ see that one coming.”

“It’s called full-shift.”  A once-again-human-shaped Derek told him as he wandered back out of the bathroom with his basketball shorts in place.  As well as a wrinkled nose – probably at the scent Stiles could smell himself giving off let alone someone else but _shit_.  Derek was _built_ – and scowly eyebrows.  “With the energy and scent Scott was giving off it was easier to let it take me and shift back than spend all night fighting it.”

“Can all wolves do that?”  Stiles asked as he finally flopped onto the far end of the couch from where Derek stood, arms crossed and grumpy, staring at Scott who was _definitely_ not home at the moment.  Picking up _Children of Sekhmet_ he figured it was a good time to read up on his own furry nature.  “Full-shift?”

Derek shrugged.  “Scott’s my first Bitten but it was something born wolves can learn.”

“How?”  Stiles prodded as he turned to the section on cheetahs intending to give it a deep-read instead of a skim like he’d down the whole book the night before, opening his shifter-notebook and clicking his pen, ready to take notes.  “I’m thinking if it has to be learned it’s not your natural state.”

“It is _once_ it’s learned.”  Derek explained, shifting his shoulders a bit in discomfort as he tried to articulate something he just _knew_.  “It’s like with your magic.  You were born with it, it was always there, but now that you’re aware of it you can use it a little.”

“Right.”  Stiles nodded, lifting one hand to finger the amulet – a Google during a class-break had him pegging it as malachite – as he stared down at the map of what used to be the range of full-cheetahs in the wild, bringing up the wiki page he had open on the species on his phone with a scowl.  _So much lost_.  “It’s there, thanks to my lesson yesterday I can feel it and stuff but not much more than that.”

Derek nodded.  “That’s like learning the beta-shift which for born wolves starts around puberty,” as if _that_ wasn’t hell enough on its own.  “But you’ll never be able to set wards without training and the ability to power them: full-shift.”

Stiles thought about that, tapping his pen thoughtfully and noting that Scotty seemed to have calmed down some listening to their voices, his growling more subvocal than howling.

“It’s a power differential isn’t it?”  He made the logical leap.  “Not just training.  A born wolf needs a level of power to force a human body – shifter or not – into a wolf shape.”

“Basically.”  Derek blinked, not having thought about it that way before.  It just _was_.  “My Mom was famous for having three-shifts: beta, alpha, and full.  Laura could do all three as well once she…”

“Got it.”  Stiles jumped in, not forcing the other man to finish the thought on just how his late-Alpha-sister had inherited – basically, if he understood how the Alphahood thing worked – a big chunk of power from their mother’s death.  “Alpha shift is what’s wrong with the rogue isn’t it?”  He asked intuitively.

“Maybe.”  Derek shifted, turning a bit so he could see Stiles without having to swivel his head constantly between keeping an eye on wolfed-out Scott and Stiles’s perch on the couch.  Though how he was keeping up a cognizant conversation and writing in his notebook, reading from both the book open on his lap and his phone, and thumbing through things on said phone Derek didn’t know he’d ever understand.

The scary part was he was pretty certain that it was just a _Stiles_ -thing not a cheetah-thing.

At least he didn’t smell like arousal anymore.

That was an awkward few minutes given that Derek – granted he didn’t really know either boy very well – had had no idea Stiles was interested in men until being slapped in the sniffer with the visceral proof of it.

Though to give the younger shifter props, he’d never gotten a hint of attraction from him before that or been uncomfortable around him because he couldn’t control himself…which really wasn’t that much of a surprise considering that Stiles wasn’t having any problems keeping a handle on his inner cheetah or his spark from what Derek had observed.

Other than what had previously been caused by his ADHD and whatever behavior patterns Stiles had because of it, Derek would say that _control_ was almost as ingrained into the younger shifter as it was for Derek through likely for very different reasons.

“In my family…”  Derek swallowed, closing his eyes for a long moment before continuing.

It was his very first moon without being around family.

Gods, even with the boys there it was difficult to function and not just sink into his wolf for the night and spend it howling at the moon.

How had Peter’s wolf _stood_ it all this time?

“In my family,” he continued once he’d gotten a better grip on himself.  “We said that the shift reflected your inner-self.”

“So…”  Stiles contemplated that a long moment, eyes turned towards a fidgety Scott that was trying – futilely – to pry the manacles off his wrists but not really _seeing_ the flinch-inducing sight of those long claws prodding at his own wrists before Derek saw what he saw and gave a low warning grumble that had Scott dropping his hands to his lap for a moment before whimpering and howling some more.  “If the rogue Alpha is misshapen then, what?”  He speculated.  “He’s sick?”

“Maybe.”  Derek shrugged again.  “If he was an Omega before turning Alpha he might be insane.”

“Oh…”  Stiles said faintly.  “Because _that’s_ so much better…”

Derek just smirked then fell back into his full-shift, leaving Stiles gaping out him in shock, then loped over to Scott and nudged him with his nose, forcing the younger wolf onto his back and pinning him with a grumble.

Scott gave a rote complaint then snuffled and curled up with the older wolf.

Stiles rolled his eyes at the two of them, muttering under his breath and going back to his research with a sniff.

As if _that_ was going to keep him from pelting the older shifter with questions as soon as he was back into a human-shaped form.

Hell, if it weren’t for the puppy-pile on the floor being good for Scott, being _wolf-shaped_ wouldn’t protect Derek from his questions…but he’d let the older shifter find that out another day when he couldn’t escape Stiles’s questions by his dad being home or slipping out of his room.

Stiles could wait and plan.

After all, it said right on the page in front of him that cheetahs were skilled hunters.

Maybe it was time a certain Sourwolf figured that out the hard way…

...

Derek was of two minds about how the full moon with Scott and Stiles went.

On one hand, it reaffirmed that Stiles was a shifter species that wasn’t controlled – at all from his completely normal behavior without the slightest sense of him being hyped up or energized or – by the moon which was a trait that would only benefit Scott over the next moons, and Derek as well though he didn’t like to think about that, having a friend who not only was a shifter himself but could be _aware_ in a way that wolves weren’t during the moon when the desire to run and hunt and play drove them more than at any other time, well that could only be a benefit to the makeshift little pack they had going despite everything in him wanting to protest having a pack ever again given his history.

On the other…there had only been slight _hints_ of Scott’s conscious mind all through the night and _that_ was not a good sign regarding his progress finding an anchor despite how well he was doing – for the most part – controlling himself outside of the moon.

Part of it, Derek was sure, came from what truly was a happy-go-lucky personality.

Derek had been around all kinds of wolves over the years, but Scott was probably the first one he’d ever met that could be described as – to use one of Stile’s descriptors for his best-friend – _goofy_.

Wolves could be playful.  Happy, affectionate, loving, yes.  _Goofy_ …no.

Goofy belonged to the wild dogs in the realm of canine shifters not the more reserved – usually though Scott seemed to be giving defying the norms a good go – wolves.

Honestly if it weren’t for the temper and deep-seated anger issues Derek had spied during their spars Derek would be at sea over how the younger wolf had turned wolf instead of wild dog with the Bite the other species seemed to fit him so well.

Well, _that_ , and having two Bitten from the States turn out to be something other than wolves would be more than defying the odds but rather along the lines of miraculous or divine intervention it would have been so unbelievable.

He was a bit impressed – if despite himself at times thanks to the rampant curiosity he was plagued with – with Stiles.  Despite his being immune to the draw of the moon that kept the other pair up all night either wrestling when Scott got too jumpy or piled up together in the lulls, the cheetah had stayed up with them all night, often commentating his research or humming under his breath the sound of which had seemed to work in helping keep Scott calm.  He’d gotten up from his perch a handful of times to pace around the bunker and shake out his limbs or get a drink or use the bathroom, but he’d been there.  Helping with his friend with his presence in the only way he could.  And as watchful over Scott as any full-cat in the wild keeping an eye on a cub.

Derek had no doubt that if Scott had managed to slip his restraints that Stiles would have been on him in an instant with that impressive cheetah speed that the older of the two teens had been playing with earlier in the night.

He really wanted to get the cheetah out in the preserve to get a bead on just how fast he was when he wasn’t holding back in deference to human witnesses.

Rumor and common-knowledge passed down to younger-Derek said that as a cat shifter Stiles _should_ be faster than a wolf.  Lions could also out-pace a canine-shifter in short distances and a tiger could make vertical leaps that were awe-inspiring.  That was nothing compared to seeing Stiles move in person.  Even if he had just been fucking around at the time.

The zippy little shit.

It was like all that practice being a motor-mouth had been directly passed to his legs and land-speed after receiving the Bite, though Stiles still talked _way too much_ as far as Derek was concerned.

Though he did get a laugh out of Stiles, a cat-shifter, being on the swim team since the only big cats that _liked_ water and swimming in the wild from what Derek could remember were tigers and jaguars not cheetahs.

Saturday passed in a blur of putting the basement back together and hiding the restraints before the Sheriff got home, Stiles passed out in a lump on his bed with Scott next to him before the older teen’s alarm went off and had him shuffling around like a zombie before stumbling out of the house and waking up both of the other shifters who were faced with the blatant amusement of the Sheriff who arrived in time to watch Stiles bolt out the front door.  Noah had taken pity on them and fed them before shooing them back upstairs.  The man was a _saint_.

Scott disappeared before Stiles returned from what was revealed upon his blurry-eyed entrance to be teaching _yoga_ of all things at the community center before he’d face-planted in the couch with a groan after sucking down a bowl of cereal.

It was a quiet day.

Or at least, it was until the Sheriff got a call late in the afternoon after waking up and shoving Stiles up the stairs with orders to shower and pretend to be a human being.

A pair of bodies had been found, burned, in the preserve…on the day after the full moon.

Stiles, lingering quietly at the top of the stairs with his head cocked towards his dad’s downstairs office, shared a _look_ with Derek when the older man craned his head around the back of the sofa where he was watching a basketball game with Noah – or had been until the man got the call from the department.

Hunters or the Alpha.

Either way, it spelled nothing but danger for the trio of shifters that were trying to slowly stumble their way into a form of alliance between the born wolf clawing his way away from slipping into Omega and the two Bitten who had only a nebulous idea of how awful that would be for the wolf of them.

…


	6. Chapter 6

** Apex Predators **

_Note: It’s a very minor edit in the grand scheme of things but I changed Claudia’s last name from Lis to Cadwallader as well as added a language Stiles was taught from the cradle for reasons pertaining to my general_ Canon? What Canon? _Take on Stiles’s background and TW canon in general.  I’m also going with a different name for Stiles, reasons for Stiles’s name, etc. though in keeping with the hard-to-pronounce idea from canon._

**Chapter Six: Hunted**

“Feline shifters are most likely to retain or be born with the ability to use magic than other species.” 

Stiles read aloud from one of his books as Derek and Scott sparred, the older wolf trying to either literally beat some sense into his best buddy or just beat on him until Scotty started fighting back with more than flailing claws and growls, the younger wolf having returned to the Stilinski house after his shift at the vet thanks to a massive dose of manipulation from his best-friend.

If Stiles had to do Shifter 101 on a Saturday evening during his most precious of preciouses _free time_ then by logic so did Scott!

Stiles had done his normal Saturday routine with only moderate (okay, severe) ass-dragging from helping Derek keep a handle on Scott during the moon, including teaching his yoga class at the community center, then joined in for the post-moon napping extravaganza going on at Casa de Stilinski until his dad woke up and demanded he _pretend_ to be a human being and not a sloth masquerading as a teenage boy for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

At least…until the Sheriff got called in over a pair of bodies found burned in the preserve.

 _Then_ Shifter 101 had kicked into gear almost moments after the door had closed behind the grim-faced visage of the elder Stilinski, with Grumpy Brows chasing them out into the backyard.

With interesting results for Stiles regarding both his own new nature, that of the wolves, and how the two compared.

He’d gone a round or five with the massive wolf and _his_ flailing, while definitely faster-paced and more – as weird as it was given his former status as an epic klutz – _elegant_ than Scott’s had absolutely _nothing_ on the strength of either wolf.

Though apparently as a cat shifter he managed to land on his feet more often than not thanks to an – it had to be instinctual because _no fucking way_ was it natural to human-Stiles – innate knowledge of how to twist his body in the air to land in a ready crouch on his feet at best and a half-kneeling but not _vulnerable_ tumble at worst.

Shifter fight club.

Fun times.

 _Not_.

Credit where it was due however, Derek had seemed marginally-impressed with Stiles’s ability to dodge and read attacks, something that together with his cheetah-speed would make him a bitch to fight once he was fully trained in fighting other shifters.

Whether that was shifter-instincts at play or his skills from years of martial arts however was still very much in question.

Either way: when it came to getting his ass handed to him by a massive wolf shifter whose goal was to teach them hard and fast in order to survive the rabid Alpha roaming Beacon Hills or who/whatever left a pair of burned bodies in the preserve, he was ecstatic that being turned into a shifter came with speed-healing because otherwise he’d have _no fucking way_ to explain the cuts, bruises, and even broken _bones_ the quick-and-dirty method of training Bitten how not to die in a fight with another shifter left behind.

Though apparently his inner-cheetah was just as much of a stubborn little shit as Stiles was since not even a harsh strike from one of Derek’s fists snapping two of his ribs had forced him into even a partial shift though it apparently – from the look on Scott’s face – made his eyes light up day-glow amber or as Derek put it “feline gold.”

Whether Derek was either good enough at fighting to split his attention between his actual fight with Scott and helping Stiles with his magic/cheetah studies at the same time or Scott was just _that_ predictable an opponent, Stiles wasn’t sure.

And due to the bro-code he wasn’t about to take bets, even if his own observations of the pair – the first time he’d seen Wolf-for-Dummies playing out in person – leaned on a combination of the two likelihoods.

“I already told you that.”  Derek told him with only mild exasperation.  Granted, he’d only known the cheetah shifter for less than a week not counting being peripherally acquainted thanks to Stiles’s mom’s friendship with his Uncle Dom before… _everything_ pulled him away from Beacon Hills, but even so he was _well-aware_ of Stiles’s tendency to fact-check.

Beside which, considering that Stiles had turned out to be the ultimate of special-snowflakes by retaining his Spark post-Bite, relentless searching for factual information wasn’t the worst personality trait he could have.  If anything, it was likely to save his life given that while a wolf wouldn’t be able to make Alpha by killing Stiles, an unscrupulous magic user most _definitely_ could boost their power by sucking down the kid’s Spark.  Just one more thing to worry about while trying to keep the newly Bitten alive on Derek’s watch.

“Yeah yeah,” Stiles snarked under his breath despite knowing full-well that all three of them could hear it anyway.  It was the principle of the thing.  “Anyway, I think I’ve figured out what you meant about my full-cheetah kin and keeping my magic.”

“Really?”  Derek arched a brow then held in a sigh as Scott sprang forward _again_ and tried to swipe at him with his new claws despite that same move not having worked the last three times he tried it.  Today _alone_.  “And?”

“In symbolism cheetahs are considered the epitome of survivors.”  Stiles looked up from his phone, still keeping to his ability to flit between tasks on a dime and having no intention of losing the ability _ever_ if he could help it.  “Often because most cubs that are born never live past being young adults at best.  Given the situation that led to my being Bitten and the inherent danger of it, my Spark probably guided my Bite into the form best able for me to _survive_ that didn’t conflict with my personality which – I have on good authority from a High Priestess of all people – is already a lot less flexible than most teens.”

Derek cast him a quick glance that was nothing less than a cue to _go on_.

Stiles sighed then caved.

“And male cheetahs are the most gregarious and vocal of big cats.”  Stiles muttered – only a bit petulant – under his breath.  “As well as the fastest with lean bodies and long limbs.”

“Clever.”  Derek nodded.  “Which you also have in common with full-cheetahs.”

Scott paused, straightening up with a frown.  His friend had explained some of what him being a different shifter meant but he hadn’t processed all of it.  Stiles _did_ tend to ramble.  But the way they were talking over his head…

“So,” Scott blinked.  “All that together made Stiles a different kind of Shifter even though he was Bitten by a wolf?”

Stiles shrugged, wobbling his hand in a so-so motion.

“If my temper were worse or I was more inclined towards solitude I probably would’ve been a jaguar instead since everything I’ve researched this week points towards them being the most inclined towards magic of all Shifters beyond a single clan of born-Wolves who tend to have at least one witch she-wolf every generation and sometimes more.”  He shrugged.  “It’s a dice-roll honestly, and if I can’t figure out my shift then finding an anchor is going to be a bitch and a half.”

“Not necessarily.”  Derek corrected.  “Since you need an anchor for your magic as well you might anchor your cheetah without ever losing control in the first place…though I’d rather not take the chance.”

“Yeah.”  Stiles drawled, arching a brow.  “I’m gonna take a hard _pass_ on expecting my cheetah to stay anchored and unexpectedly going _furry_ because my temper decided to snap one day.”

“Good plan.”

Stiles heaved a sigh, expression melting into a scowl that had hints of pout as the wolves stopped their “sparring” when Scotty snapped _another_ bone in unison with an exasperated huff from Derek and wandered over.

“I’m going to have to talk to my dad though.”  He muttered, as much to himself as to the others.

“What?  Why?”  Scott instantly started to internally panic at the mere _thought_ of explaining being a werewolf to his mom.  He would be _so_ grounded for life if she ever found out about wandering in the forest let alone what came with it.

Derek cast a sympathetic – but knowing – glance at the younger shifter as he moved inside to take the first shower, practice unofficially over for the moment rather than continuing to beat his head against the brick wall that was Scott McCall and allow the boys some time to talk without him looming over them.

Physically or metaphorically.

Not to mention he had a feeling he knew what Stiles’s sudden mood-dip was about and…

Well.

To say that discussions of _family_ wasn’t his favorite thing in the world would be a major understatement.

“Magic doesn’t come from nowhere, Scott.”  Stiles sighed, digging his hands roughly through his short-cropped brown hair, looking up at his friend who’d plopped down next to him with stricken whiskey-amber eyes.  “It’s not like being a muggleborn in Harry Potter.  Everything I’ve read from reputable sources says that it’s a heritable trait,” he hid a wince at the confused look on his best-bro’s face and adjusted his language.  “Like eye color, Scotty.  It runs in _families_.”

“So…”  Scott’s eyes shot wide with shock, mirroring the expression Stiles was certain his own face had had when he’d made the same logical connection that first night after meeting Sara and the others at the _Dancing Flame_.  “You mean…?”

“Yeah.”  Stiles nibbled at the corner of his mouth in absent anxiety, Scott’s nose wrinkling at the sudden change to his scent perfuming the air.  “One – or, fuck, _both_ – of my parents either have magic themselves or _came_ from magical families.  Otherwise…”  He shrugged, burying his head on the arms crossed before him as he laid on his stomach and half-on half-off several books on magic and/or shifters.  “I’d probably be a regular wolf shifter like you and Derek and not the freak of nature I am.”

“Hey,” Scott frowned, looking like an angry puppy when Stiles peeked one eye up at the insistent nudge from his buddy’s knee against his shoulder.  “You’re not a freak.”  He scolded.  “You’re _awesome_.  And as soon as you figure out how to shift you’ll be even _awesomer_.”

Stiles chuckled, reaching out and patting his friend on his near-leg.

“Thanks, bud.  I’ll keep that in mind next time I can’t manage to sprout fur but twist in mid-air to land on my feet.”

“Well, you have to admit.”  Scott’s tone turned teasing.  “At the least you’re going to save your dad a _ton_ on emergency repairs to the house and runs to the ER and…”

“Asshole.”

“Jerk.”

…

His body was his prison.

If asked – if anyone ever _thought_ to ask – he wouldn’t be able to identify the moment when he switched on from coma patient to an active mind locked – trapped, always trapped – inside his own cage of muscle and meat and bone.

Officially, by the time he’d “woken” locked inside himself, Peter Hale was considered to be in a “Minimally Conscious State” from what he’d heard when new medical staff were being briefed on his case and care.

Unofficially, after spending who-knew-how-long trapped in waking-nightmares of the fire that took his family, pack, and personal agency, he was _fucking livid_.

He knew what woke him.

Of course he did.

A single moment that years later would give him a timeline for how long he’d been trapped inside his own mind before waking to being trapped inside his own damn body.

It was to a piping voice and a pair of small soft hands cradling his own with a gentle care that he would come to know as well as he’d once known the idle-but-purposeful touch-scenting of his family and pack.

 _“…and they said that people need to touch, Peter!”_ The voice was saying, midway through what to even his confused mind sounded like a report from a school lesson.  _“They did studies on it and everything!  But you’re supposed to ask first, I hope you don’t mind.”_   The little voice which belonged to the soft hands turned sheepish.  _“Dad says that’s important, asking.  Even for little things like hugs an’ stuff…”_

Later, once the clouding effect of the healing cell-by-cell burns combined with the lethal mixture of mountain ash, yellow wolfsbane, and mistletoe had worn off enough for his mind to click back on fully instead of in a state not unlike the haze that came with a good drunk on wolfsbane-infused wine or a custom joint of marijuana and, again, specialty wolfsbane that brought him back to his rebellion-laced late teens, Peter would identify that moment where one Stiles Stilinski, latent Spark, touched him skin-to-skin as the moment his healing got enough of a boost to finish healing his mind.

Gods knew: he’d needed it.

Yellow wolfsbane was rare and highly valued by hunters who had a taste for the sadistic.

It was a paralytic or a tranquilizer depending on how it was processed and used.

Mistletoe was a curse and a cure; deadly in some forms, toxic in others, and still useful against magic-induced ailments if used correctly.

And mountain ash was a defense particularly against anything magical – including shifters.

Mix them together with _fire_ , have them be inhaled and tangled up in burn wounds and his bloodstream, and it was no wonder that it took both more than a year _and_ a boost from a latent spark to power his werewolf healing to finish healing his most vital damaged areas of himself first – his brain.

Especially as an omega who healed slower and was weaker than a pack beta even without the custom cocktail of sadism-inspired smoke that took Peter and his entire family down.

Even so he’d never forget the scents of those who were there that night.

Or those who _weren’t_ , which, really for many years left him with a single tearing question even as the latent spark who he eventually recognized as Claudia and Noah’s boy for all that the couple was older than Peter by a decade, _where the hell were Laura and Derek?_

Were they hunted down and killed?

Did they escape?

Did they _abandon_ him?

Where were Derek and Laura?

If they survived, he had no doubt that the Alpha power would’ve gone to Laura with Peter so weak from the fire and Derek a perfect example of a wolf _born_ to be the right-hand and gentling force of an alpha.

That Peter _couldn’t_ feel the Alpha power when he became aware enough of himself beyond the truly excruciating pain that was having his healing force mistletoe, mountain ash, and yellow wolfsbane that had burrowed into his burned and scarred flesh from himself after healing the damage to his internal organs answered at least half of the question.

One of them at least survived.

The only question was which or both?

And, of course, _why the fuck_ they left him to rot in Beacon Hills, under _his own fucking name_ , where any hunter could come any goggle at the “catatonic” spectacle of Peter Hale, oh-so-dangerous and deadly left-hand of Talia Hale.

The first one came approximately – it was hard to keep track of time when all he had to occupy himself was his slower-than-slow healing, the rotation of medical staff, and Stiles’s post-school visits – a few months after Peter woke to imprisonment inside his own cage of blood and bone.

Standard thug of a bruiser, plain features with a nose broken more than once with a buzz-cut and the stench of gunpowder and wolfsbane _reeking_ almost from his very pores and contaminating Peter’s room.

The thug came in bold as brass during “visiting” hours but before Stiles popped in for his visit, checking the chart hanging on the wall regarding Peter’s latest tests and prognosis, snapping his fingers next to his ears, shining a light in his eyes, all with a look of utter _boredom_ and a total lack of expectation written all over that dumb face before leaving and making a phone call before he was even out of earshot.

_“Yeah boss, still a veg, no change, the others haven’t crawled out of their hole to visit him since last time according to the log.”_

_“Good, come in.”_

_“Yeah boss, will do.”_

And _that_ , that was almost more infuriating a confirmation that his niece had abandoned him than the fact that _hunters_ felt bold enough to waltz into his room, check out his private medical information and inspect his visitor logs than being abandoned in the first place.

Almost.

Still, knowledge was never wasted no matter how it was gained or how infuriating the contents.

That Laura would leave him well…that wasn’t the biggest shocker in the world.

Honestly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d cut him out even if he’d been merely burned instead of in a coma after the fire.

The pair of them never _had_ seen eye to eye, especially with the lingering knowledge that should Talia die instead of _choosing_ to will on her powers, taking a “retirement” so to speak from being an Alpha, that the power might choose _Peter_ as the next Alpha rather than the “Heiress Apparent” of the entitled little bitch.

She didn’t know _why_ that was a lingering thought in the mind of her mother, only that it was something Talia warned her of – supposedly in secret but Peter had never subscribed to the idea of privacy when it was as likely that a threat could come from _within_ as he’d learned the hard way at a whopping fifteen than it could from without – while Talia’s warning had sparked a hidden memory in Peter himself that eventually led to a memory cascade as the memory wipe performed by his mother broke and told him _exactly_ what his parents and sister had feared when it came to Peter.

To say that a pubescent teenage she-wolf hadn’t taken _that_ revelation well would be an understatement, especially since Talia – like their mother before her – had started grooming her firstborn daughter for Alphahood since his sister had scented out her wolfhood shortly after Laura’s birth.

Peter had sucked up his rage and resentment, his betrayal and heartache and tucked it all away, not even confiding in his wife of what he’d found buried inside his own skull.

The Hale Pack had accepted within months after Laura started snubbing Peter and acting out that when the time came, Talia’s Left-Hand and Second _would not_ be Laura’s and wrote it off as an issue of personality conflict and started casting eyes over Laura’s siblings and cousins in search of a proper Second – either Left or Right Hand depending on what type of Alpha Laura might prove to be – before Laura’s behavior had made it certain that she would need the gentling effect of a Right-Hand instead of an enforcer of a Left-Hand.

No, Laura Hale was capable of her own spite-driven violence and retribution.

Derek was the closest thing to a mollifying agent for her temper that they found within the pack and his training alongside his father Jacob and Peter himself started shortly thereafter.

Less than a year later came fire and death and a slow creep towards insanity…and then a Spark which – little did Peter know at the time – saved him from becoming a macabre caricature of himself.

Still, sane, insane, or somewhere in between, that didn’t mean when the time came and an… _opportunity_ presented itself when he was healed enough to take advantage of it that he stayed his hand.

On the contrary.

After six years of infirmity, healing, and the hollow darkness of isolation leavened only by amber eyes and a bright smile accompanied by lightning fast chatter, Peter jumped on his chance for revenge.

Though, against _who_ , even he couldn’t say – at first.

There _was_ nothing quite like a rush of power, not unlike the jumpstart offered by a latent spark’s innocent touch, to clear the mind.

Even if it _did_ take until after the first full moon to truly take effect, leaving him a bit at a loss for the first time in years for how to salvage his plan from the burning embers of his rage and nearly out-of-control instincts.

Still.

He was Peter Hale.

He’d adjust.

If he couldn’t, his law degree and abilities as a Left-Hand weren’t worth even a fraction of the effort they’d taken to acquire in the first place.

…

Stiles woke up on Sunday morning brimming with energy even after magic practice the previous night once his dad had stumbled, exhausted and weary, back home with a strange-sour scent clouding him.

Derek used Stiles’s too-quiet-for-human-ears questions as a teaching moment.

Apparently having superior scenting abilities – though more known for canine shifters they _all_ had better-than-human senses of smell – meant that once they knew the base scent of a person well enough they could start to distinguish chemosignals to get an idea of overarching mood and state of being.

Which was a squicky mixture of awesome and massively-privacy-invading all at the same time.

Even so, Stiles could already tell that it was likely largely helpful for shifters to deal with issues in a pack or family or group since they didn’t have to go off of strict body-language (which they were better at reading than most humans thanks to instincts?) or what people _said_.

Especially since people – all people – lie.

An issue that Stiles would be even _better_ at reading than he’d already been – and he’d been pretty-damn-good thanks to cutting his teeth at the police station since he could toddle on everything from interrogation to lock picking to escaping handcuffs – since unless a person _knew_ they were being observed they couldn’t control their physiological response to lying, and even then they needed training to do it well enough to fool a shifter.

Neat.

Shifter superpowers for the _win_.

Awkward moments regarding _personal boundaries_ aside both his own and those of others.

Stiles _did not_ need to know when/if his dad participated in a little self-loving _ever_ and wished there was such a thing as brain bleach since he was going to take a hard-pass on both memory wiping spells (since there wasn’t a magically-inclined person around he trusted to do digging through his brain pan) and the freaky-deaky powers of Alpha claws or other high-powered shifters was likewise a hard-pass.

Scott had been shooed back to his own house to stare dreamy-eyed at his ceiling (Stiles was guessing) and obsess over the date he had with Allison once her family was back from whatever “bonding/family-time” activity they’d planned for the weekend.

The remaining trio of a pair of Stilinskis – one of whom _really_ needed a shower, beer, and sleep – and two moon-tired shifters had gone their separate ways after dinner and the aforementioned beer on the parts of Noah and Derek.

Leaving Stiles to do more research and actually get in some magic practice now that he didn’t have to worry about controlling a moonstruck baby-wolf though the newest murder in the preserve had him itching to go digging through his dad’s files for more information.

A project for another day.

Sundays were for homework, relaxation, time with his Dad, and visiting Peter.

Given recent events, over his dead body would he be skipping the latter in order to take advantage of bringing his dad dinner – since with three bodies dropping within a short period of time the likelihood of the Sheriff taking off his normal rest day was slim and none – to snoop through the sheriff department’s files.

Not like it was _hard_ since Stiles knew all of his dad’s log-ins and passwords.

But it still took time.

And if anything had been made clear in the last week to him, it was that as a shifter, _time_ wasn’t necessarily something that was guaranteed anymore than it was for a human.

If anything, given the dangers, it was even more precious and precarious despite – according to his books – shifters tending to have increased longevity thanks to their suped-up healing factor.

That Derek pointed him and his armload of new plants for Peter’s room towards the Camaro instead of Roscoe when it was officially visiting hours at the long-term ward of the hospital brought a bright and beaming smile to Stiles’s face.

He _knew_ Captain Grumpypants wouldn’t miss visiting his uncle.

With everything he’d learned in the last couple days about wolves in general and the rare nuggets of information he’d observed regarding one Derek Hale in particular, he’d been counting on the big lug to come with him.

Even if it _was_ with a scowl on his face and a cloud of angst stinking up the interior of the Camaro.

…

Derek watched with amused eyes as Stiles flitted – yes, definitely _flitted_ despite the younger shifter likely baulking if he ever heard that description – all around his uncle’s room setting a potted mint plant here, watering an aloe vera there, sending some energy (he thought, maybe) to the plants that _already_ spread around the room from the snake plants crowding a shelf to the English ivy sprawling from a hanging planter near the ceiling.

He hadn’t noticed the plants other than absently last time he’d come to visit a few days before, far too wrapped up in his head and pain and seeing Uncle Peter again to see the details in the wake of the big picture.

The cards that showed _years_ of care and visits between the Stilinskis and his uncle.

Shelves filled with books from his uncle’s office, frames with copies of family pictures that were as likely to come from Peter’s home in the preserve as they were anywhere else.

Especially a few showing his Aunt Veronique with her tightly braided hair tossed back as she laughed or cuddling with Peter and their young daughter – _fuck_.

His cousin Cosette had only been five.

Fuck.

Just…fuck.

Even six years later the old grief could _still_ suck him under especially in the wake of the new.

Cosette hadn’t been the youngest that died in the fire.

Not by a long shot.

But Derek had been closer to Peter and therefore his wife and daughter than he had the rest of the extended Hale clan, including his cousins and relatives from his dad’s side of the family or the kids of his mom’s cousin.

Never seeing Cosette’s perfectly mocha skin or dancing chocolate eyes again was a special form of hell among his memories.

Derek sat, mourning silently though he thought Stiles either just from being observant or working more with his new senses had an idea, holding onto Peter’s limp hand while Stiles fussed with the plants and collection of random items that spoke of years of occupancy until it was all _just so_.

Given that it was _definitely_ out of season for that lavender plant to be blooming after a single touch from Stiles’s fingers against the evergreen sprigs, he was banking on there being some magical _something_ going on just under the surface of Stiles’s flitting around that he couldn’t make sense of.

As a born wolf he might have a much firmer grasp on his senses and instincts and abilities – to say nothing of the lore and traditions and unspoken _rules_ of being a shifter – but his magical abilities beyond shifting and being able to use pre-purposed wards and enchanted items was laughably nil.

“Don’t judge me with your eyebrows, Sourwolf.”  Stiles tossed over his shoulder as he narrowed his eyes at a lemon balm plant he’d force-grown from seed the night before – he was taking to sharing energy with non-sentient living things _like a boss_ after finding the seeds and little containers and instructions among his “prezzies” from Sara, to say nothing of his glow-amulet-of-hiding that he had to charge up every night to protect him from creatures and magic users that thought him a nummy treat – and nudged it precisely a quarter-inch to the left.  He nodded, satisfied, already knowing that he’d come back again for his next visit and find everything moved around.  The sad truth of living in a hospital: there was no such thing as truly _private_ or off-limits.  “I can’t share energy with Peter _directly_ , making his room smell nicer is the least I can do with my new-and-improved self.”  He wrinkled his own nose at the stench of antiseptics, disease, blood, and a _lot_ of things he’d rather not think about _thank-you-very-much_.  “Well, as much as possible anyway.”

“Lavender, mint, lemon balm.”  Derek noted the plants, all good for either pest repellents, magical use, medicinal purposes, or just smelled good as Stiles switched from flitting around the room to prowling towards him and his uncle, slinking into an empty patch of Peter’s hospital bed with a distinctly _cat-like_ grace and taking his free hand.  “Rosemary, ivy, snake plant, spider plants, aloe vera.”

Stiles shrugged and blinked, half nonchalant over the recitation and half impressed at the knowledge displayed from the wolf incarnation of grumpy-cat.

That was some random knowledge for a guy who looked like Derek Hale, especially since none of the plants were labeled and most people wandering around the States wouldn’t know lemon balm from bee balm.

“Either air-cleaners or have other uses.”  Stiles supplied, smirking lightly as he cocked his head to the side.  “Though I get the idea you already knew that.”

“Why have you been taking care of my uncle, Stiles?”  Derek finally asked the question that had been tugging at him ever since Stiles had danced around it when Derek caught Peter’s scent on his laundry.  “Your dad, I get – kinda.”  He shifted switching hands so he could hold onto his uncle and give the older wolf a makeshift shoulder-arm rub with his free hand.  And finding that like he’d noted before, Peter had kept quite a bit of his muscle tone despite the disuse of six years convalescing.

Which wasn’t _too_ totally shocking.

He was a wolf after all.

The shifter package – helpfully – came with an increased metabolism that if starved could turn a shifter into skin, bone, and teeth but with even a half-decent diet tended towards appearances ranging anywhere from leanly slender and toned like the form Stiles’s cheetah-shifter frame was rapidly developing to the massive musculature of bigger wolves, lions, tigers, and bear shifters like Derek himself.

Another reason Peter and Derek had drifted together.

In a Pack that had a tendency towards wiry strength they were powerhouses of stacked muscles and enforcer-level height and reach.

Gifts from the native shifter – or shaman, family lore was a little sketchy on the matter – that married a Hale Matriarch when the pack moved West and settled Beacon Hills, or so the story went to explain why some of their bloodline would quite distinctly carry characteristics more in common with the massive wolves native to the New World shifters than their smaller European cousins.

“Why you?”

Stiles stared blankly at the face of Peter Hale, determinedly _not_ looking at the man’s pretty nephew with his pretty eyes and his eyebrows-of-judgement.

“My mom spent a lot of time in the long-term care ward here.”  Stiles finally said long after Derek – and an eagerly listening Peter who was rapidly making new plans and calculations based on the information shared between the pair and the quickly-developing rapport his betas, _possible_ betas, had going on – gave up on an answer.  “When you have ADHD as bad as I do – or did, I guess – routine is important.  One day after a visit with my mom, my dad was taking longer than normal and I wandered in.”  He huffed a self-deprecating laugh.  “Stilinskis tend to be clingy according to my dad.  We latch onto people and don’t let go.”

“You latched onto my uncle after the fire.”  Derek nodded, squeezing lightly at Peter’s hand.  The family bonds were faint, barely there, but still: stronger than they were before the full moon.

“Yeah.”  Stiles quirked a not-quite-smile.  “Ironic, adopting a werewolf as a kid, no idea of what I was getting into, then being bitten by a rogue six years later.”  Flicking a quick glance away from the absent-gazed form of Peter, he caught a thoughtful look on Derek’s normally stoic face then turned back towards Peter, getting his visit back on its normal track.

“Hey Peter,” Stiles said, lifting his free hand – not unlike the rudimentary massage Derek was giving – and rubbing at the catatonic wolf’s upper back.  “A lot’s happened since my last visit, I barely know where to start.”  He blinked, shaking his head and speaking in a half-aside to himself as much as the wolves.  _“Fuck, was that only a week ago?_   So, first thing’s first: don’t know what Derek here,” he jerked his head toward the other man.  “Told you but we have a bit of a rogue – Omega?”

He double-checked with Derek, arching a brow then nodding and continuing at Derek’s barely-there dip of a strong chin.

Honestly, if he wasn’t a shifter and looking for it Stiles didn’t know if he would’ve caught the motion.

Body language is a whole new level of intricate when you throw super-charged senses into the mix, especially since his instincts were cataloging everything on an entirely different scale than what Stiles normally bothered with.

“Yeah, an Omega problem.”  He grimaced, shooting an apologetic glance at Derek.  “But I’m pretty sure Derek told you at least some of that so highlights: surprise, I’m a shifter now!”  He announced with mock-cheer.  “And Scotty too.  Though,” a grimace, “true to form I’m a special snowflake.  Turned cheetah instead of wolf like Scott and the Omega-Alpha.”

“Rogue alpha is more appropriate.”  Derek corrected mildly, watching the routine with interest even as the mention of the _alpha_ send a fresh spike of rage-dipped agonized grief burning through his chest.

“Right, rogue alpha.”  Stiles wrinkled his nose.  “And, have to say Peter, _not loving_ the whole new world of nomenclature I’m dealing with.  Cause, you know me, couldn’t _just_ be a cheetah shifter but the running theory is I had _to be_ a cheetah shifter because, surprise two: I’m also a spark.  Apparently you wolfy-types aren’t great with the casting and the chanting and the talking to trees – or whatever it is druids do besides _keeping the balance_ – though, real talk, while necromongers and Darachs scare the _crap_ out of me on paper, the idea of necromancers who can talk to the dead is kinda awesome.”

“Who’d you want to summon?”  Derek chuckled, already familiar enough with Stiles to have an idea of what the teen would do with that sort of ability.  “Einstein?”

Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“No,” he smirked, devilment dancing in his whiskey-amber eyes.  “Jack the Ripper so I can finally _solve that fucking case_.”  He jerked a shoulder in a not-quite-shrug.  “Personally, my money’s on a bored nobleman or something.  If there’s anything history has taught us, especially the last couple centuries, it’s that entitlement can breed the worst sorts of monsters.”

“Fair.”  Derek decided after giving that a moment’s thought, Stiles going back to his rundown of his week to Peter.

“So, yeah.  Derek’s trying to work with me and Scott best as he can, but my cat is apparently as much as a stubborn asshole as I am and I can’t manage more than an eyeflare no matter how pissed or angry or even in pain I get.  _Super_ annoying but also kinda interesting how character traits dovetail like that.  A high priestess of a coven in San Fran is tutoring me in magic stuff, though other than being a powerful spark or whatever we don’t really _know_ what direction my magic is going to take since there’s, like,” he did some quick-and-dirty estimating.  “Twenty or so different categories plus little niche specialties and I’m the newest of neophytes for all that I can bleed off energy into just about anything I touch and I’ve only been practicing it since Thursday.”  He pursed his lips then shrugged, running down the week in his mind.  “Wards look cool.  Dad still doesn’t know any of this unless he _does_ and just never told me and if that’s true I’m going to be so _put out_ with him it’ll be tofu burgers and quinoa for _months_.”

“And then there’s the bodies that keep end up dropping in the preserve.”  Derek added with a healthy dose of dry snark and an eye-roll.

“Right, yeah, totally _forgot_ about the recent spate of _murders_.”  Stiles hissed, glaring at the Sourwolf.  “Not like _that’s_ the sort of thing someone in a catatonic state needs to worry about or anything.”

“He’s healing, Stiles.”  Derek told him gruffly, swallowing around the sudden thickness in his throat that tasted too much of tears, blood, and ash.  “Slowly, but he’s healing.  Having me here will only speed it up, you visiting will do the same now that your spark is unlocked.”

And _that_ , Peter agreed though his gentle-hearted – when it came to his current state at least – visitors were blind to his improvements with the lack of the full moon leaving him weakened in the waning of the moon instead of strengthened by the waxing and full moon, was nothing but the truth.

He could feel it even more _now_ after the first moon following the Bite of his betas – though he supposed as a cheetah Stiles wasn’t a traditional beta… - the bonds between himself and Derek and Stiles in particular growing and thickening and powering him.

Not the other boy, stubborn thing, though he was a bit of a… _mishap_ anyway.

Collateral damage to his diminished capacity before the boost from the alpha powers and the moon managed to finish healing his brain – and, to an extent, his madness from his long imprisonment.

But the boy, Scott, had smelled so much of Stiles that it was an easy mistake to make trying to battle through the damage of mistletoe, mountain ash, and wolfsbane combined with the ultimate high of alpha power rushing through his veins.

With Derek, who seemed to have grown _attached_ to Stiles and Scott, at least to the extent of not wanting them to die because they were untrained and vulnerable, plus his two Bitten, Peter nearly had a _Pack_.

If only the bonds would form faster, his position not lending towards _pack bonding_ outside of the too-brief moments with his nephew and Stiles coming to visit him.

Still, pack and betas or not, Peter still had vengeance to plan and contingencies to plot.

Though, one would hope, his first strike against the monsters who destroyed his family and pack _should_ be enough to lure his true prey to Beacon Hills.

Viciousness, however, doesn’t _necessarily_ lend itself towards being either clever or cunning.

There was every chance he might need to make more of a mess before _sweet_ _Katie Silver_ deigned to show her face in Beacon Hills once more.

And then, at last, the huntress can learn what it truly is to be _hunted_.

…

They’d not been away from the hospital long – and thankfully without another confrontation between Stiles and one of Peter’s aides who the younger shifter apparently _did not_ like – needing to stop for gas for the Camaro and snacks for the bottomless pit that was a teenager shifter’s stomach when it happened.

Stiles had gone inside with cash fished out from Derek’s leather wallet with instructions and a pump number, Derek taking care of the oh-so- _exciting_ act of pumping gas when a pair of SUVs pulled up.

Both were plain black, totally unremarkable from where Stiles was watching – okay, he was oogling just a _tad_ but Derek Hale in leather and jeans should be _illegal_ and the distance and smell of the gas station covered Stiles’s oh-so-obvious _appreciation_ – Derek as he cleared out the convenience store of jerky, carrying his haul up to the counter to pay, and frowning at the sudden tensing of the object of his appreciation.

Of course, that might be because the SUVs rather neatly boxed the Camaro in, one pulling in nose-to-nose with the sports car and the other nearly dinging the back bumper as the driver of the first SUV climbed out, two more men following him from the passenger side and rear of the – yep, that was a Tahoe.

Stiles caught the whisper from Derek before the goons – _carrying_ goons, Stiles knew what a concealed carry looked like, his dad was the Sheriff, fuck – approached the older shifter, getting _all_ up in Derek’s business and trying, but failing, to loom given Derek’s impressive height but managing to exude _menace_ nonetheless.

He turned idly to face the cashier who hadn’t noticed a damn thing thanks to the perma-fried expression on his placid, pockmarked face.

“Please tell me those cameras I saw in the fuel-up bay are actually wired and recording not just for show.”

“Uhh…”  The cashier blinked as Stiles pretended to fiddle with his phone, managing to point it towards the clear glass of the most _excellent_ view of the reenactment of the showdown at the OK corral going on at the Beacon Hills Arco station.  “Yeah.”  A gulp, nervous eyes darting a glance towards the cars outside.  “Boss has it all set up and digital so…”

“That’s good.”  Stiles beamed a smile, still keeping his body relaxed.  “Because unless I’m very mistaken, the Sheriff is about to be _very_ interested in the contents of them.”

“Should I call the cops?”

“Don’t bother.”  Stiles shrugged the offer off, keeping an eye and both ears locked on the confrontation at the Camaro as the cashier continued through the motions of ringing Stiles up – though going slow as molasses in winter at his prompting.  “I already did.”

It took Stiles a long time – most of his childhood and all of his teens up to his sixteenth birthday in fact – to discover a key component of why he had such a fucking hard time relating to other people.

Well, above and beyond having ADHD and trauma from his mother’s death anyway.

And it came down to a talk Sensei Grant gave on ethics.

Stiles _had_ ethics.

He’d learned them via osmosis from his dad and his research spirals and hanging around the sheriff’s station.

What Stiles most distinctly _lacked_ was any sort of morals.

Come to find out, especially in the middle-America culture he’d been raised in, it was a lot more common to have the _opposite_ issue: all morals, no ethics instead of all ethics, no morals.

Which probably explained why, when seeing Derek being confronted by who he was pretty sure – and Derek’s whispered instructions to _stay hidden_ confirmed – were hunters, his knee-jerk reaction wasn’t to rush in and save the big bad wolf from the bigoted gun-toting assholes, but to start plotting how to cause them the greatest amount of damage for being unrepentant dickbags.

Thankfully, he didn’t recognize any of them making them either out-of-towners or newcomers drawn in by the recent violence in the preserve, and he _happened_ to have the Beacon County Sheriff's Department on speed-dial.

…

Derek was feeling more than a little scraped raw and wounded after seeing his uncle Peter for the second time in less than a week after literal _years_ of being separated.

Witnessing the little ritual of Stiles’s visits to the catatonic wolf had been nothing less than rock salt ground into the gaping wounds of Laura’s abandonment of their uncle and her own subsequent death, especially since he saw for himself – instead of just seeing tokens here and there or hearing about it secondhand – just how comfortable and familiar Stiles was with Peter and in what, despite his uncle being in a mostly non-responsive state, was the elder wolf’s territory.

As a territorial shifter himself, Stiles _should have_ been at least a little discomfited at entering the hospital room but instead the teenager hadn’t even hesitated or had the tiniest blip to his heartrate to give away discomfort that should be there but wasn’t.

It _should have_ been as instinctive as Stiles’s eye-flare upon Derek’s original – if unmeant – intrusion on the cheetah’s den but wasn’t, not to Stiles.

And that?

That said a fucking _lot_ about both Stiles and how firmly the bond between the catatonic wolf and the hyperactive cheetah – no matter how newly minted the younger shifter was – and how likely it was that the preexisting bond was one of the things playing merry hell with the instincts between _Derek_ and the younger shifter.

Once upon a time in the Hale Pack, bonds had existed between all of them, yes.

However, in the traumatic snapping of so many of them at once, over two dozen at final count some wolves and some humans with at least one magic user though they hadn’t been sure – yet – if any of the non-wolf kids had inherited a spark instead of the shift , even the strongest of the bonds that had remained would’ve needed to be repaired or redone on new grounds entirely.

Like the Alpha-Beta bond between Laura and Derek that never really _did_ reestablish itself as a full family bond despite the two of them _being_ family.

But, as it hadn’t been his strongest familial bonds in the first place and with the guilt of both what happened to them and having to follow Laura when he left Peter lest he be shoved into the system – and omega wolves didn’t last long in any form of institution from prison to group homes for orphans – he hadn’t been surprised that the familial bond between them had remained weaker than it once had been.

That he’d managed to _keep_ the bond between himself and Peter – no matter how weak and damaged – on the other hand was a testament to how _strong_ it had once been that it survived at all.

Peter…Peter had just _got_ him.

He’d understood that Derek wasn’t – ever – going to be a stereotypical outgoing Hale wolf.

He’d been okay with the fact that Derek would rather read or study or workout or spar than play games with his siblings or multitude of cousins.

And it had been _Peter_ that had tagged Derek as a potential either enforcer or loremaster, both positions in the Pack that wouldn’t require him to pretend to like – or care – about things like shifter politics, forming alliances, or socializing.

In the end, Peter had been more like an older brother.

Hell, there was only a year different between Peter and Derek’s older brother and three between Peter and Laura before the seven-year gap separating Derek and Laura let alone their little brother.

Nothing like a twenty-year age spread between siblings that the one that spaced out Derek’s mom from Peter, with his uncle David being, like Laura and Derek, seven years younger than Talia and thirteen older than Peter.

So, yeah, watching Stiles be all bubbly and bouncy around Peter’s hospital room and doing everything from basic physical therapy exercises with Peter to bringing him plants to make the room smell better to ensuring that the entire time they were there Peter had some form of contact – which was even more important for wolves than it was for plain-jane humans – was a bit like a punch to the stomach.

He’d known – intellectually, especially after his conversations with both the Sheriff and the hospital staff as well as his visit a few days before alone – that the Stilinskis had unofficially adopted Peter.

Seeing it in action was a different thing _entirely_.

Which was why, when Laura’s Camaro – fuck, _his_ Camaro now he supposed – was boxed in by a pair of domestic-make SUVs in black with dark tinting that might as well be driven off the lot of “Hunters-R-Us” and Christopher- _fucking-Argent_ climbed out of the driver’s side of the one facing Derek, he was less than amused and in no state to deal with hunter equivalent of a welcome-wagon.

He held in a sigh as he flicked his gaze towards the cashier where Stiles was doing an impressive job of pretending to be just a dumb kid buying snacks, and whispered:

_“Stay inside.  Don’t let them suspect you’re with me.”_

And prepared to deal with what was literally _the last fucking thing_ he wanted to deal with, with the recent assault on his ability to pretend to be a functioning human being in the form of a vivid, in-living-color, reminder of what an _Argent_ had done to his family – and the price that they were _still paying_ six years later.

“Camaro, leather jacket, scowl.”  Chris Argent rattled off as he took in the sight he never thought he’d see – and less than a _week_ after moving his family to Beacon Hills – that of a Hale wolf running around town bold as brass.  “You must be Derek Hale.”

“Chris Argent.”  Derek arched an unimpressed brow.  If Argent thought he could somehow cow or intimidate him with flaunting his knowledge of who Derek was, he’d have to try a _lot_ fucking harder than that.

He wasn’t an exact ringer for his Grandfather or a male version of his mom, but he wasn’t that far off either.

One of the universe’s cosmic jokes: that one of the _least_ Hale Hale’s in personality and behavior was the closest in looks.

Well.

Except for his size but that was a different thing altogether and a matter of odd – and old – family lore.

“I’d heard you’d moved to Beacon Hills.”  Derek commented, a dark smirk crossing his face as surprise flashed across Argent’s face.  After all, it wasn’t like he was a ringer for the rest of his family like Derek was and the rumor mill wasn’t _quite_ as interested in a random family moving to town as they were the return of the prodigal son – so to speak – following on the heels of the heiress’s murder.  “Getting off to a _great_ start aren’t you?  What with the rogue omega still running around and dropping bodies and all…”

“Don’t you mean rogue _Alpha_?”  Chris said just for the pleasure of watching rage mingled grief flash over that smug wolf’s face.  “Since from what _we_ can tell their first body belonged to _your_ Alpha.”

Derek let his eyes flash beta-blue as he snarled, Chris having to raise a hand before his _jumpier_ boys pulled weapons in full-view of the cashier and the kid watching everything from inside the gas station’s store.

“Funny thing.”  Derek bared his teeth but kept them to just that – teeth.  “Since from what I understand, my sister was _cut in half_.”  His chest rumbled with threat as Chris’s eyes widened at the implication.  “Maybe you don’t have as good a grip on your _boys_ as you like to think you do, _Argent_.  Or too good of one.”

Chris had nothing to say to that – what _could_ he say? – as he’d known nothing about it.

Questions he didn’t want to have to ask were going to have to be lodged among his men, out of a sheer stupidity-check than anything else as hunters didn’t need police looking their way anymore than creatures did, especially one as damn _good_ at his job as the Beacon County sheriff was purported to be _and_ as a law enforcement officer who wasn’t hunter-aligned.

Just getting someone inside the BCSD had been a headache and a half.

Getting more than simple information in and out would be a nightmare, let alone trying for a cover-up, and as far as he was aware Stilinski didn’t have any weaknesses that could be exploited beyond his kid.

Which was a slippery-slope when dealing with a good cop who was a former Marine that he didn’t want to start dancing down lest it rebound on him – _bad_.

“Welcome home, Derek.”  Chris nodded to the boys from the second rig, the pair swinging their batons – electrified but a feature that wasn’t needed at the moment – and breaking out the rear window of the Camaro.  “We’ll be keeping an eye on you.”  He smirked, tilting his head as he turned back towards his rig.  “After all: you’re an omega now.”

Derek had to give the hunter credit for being a special kind of asshole and what would have been a great parting line if it wasn’t for one thing: the blare and whoop of sirens as a pair of BCSD patrol cars pulled into the gas station, blocking in the SUVs blocking _him_ in, and the sight of Noah throwing his squad car into park and killing the siren though not the flashers as he took in the scene before climbing slowly out of the car and squaring his shoulders as the hunters found themselves boxed in by the Sheriff and a trio of deputies as Stiles snickered inside.

…

 


	7. Chapter 7

** Apex Predators **

**Chapter Seven: Lesser Crimes, Misdemeanors, and Felonies: Oh My!**

Stiles sent his dad a message attachment with the video he’d shot of the confrontation and a simple message: _retractable batons used to break window_ , a message which reached the sheriff just as he stepped out of his patrol car and into a mess of tensions instead of being already home and enjoying a pizza and waiting on his son and houseguest to arrive thanks to the recent spate of violent crime shaking up quiet Beacon Hills.

It was a simple message and for a simple reason: he knew they were hunters, having heard their conversation with Derek as clearly from inside as if he’d been standing at the wolf’s side.

And carrying batons – or whatever you wanted to call them – was _illegal_ in California, especially if they were modified, like if they were intended to be used against, say, _werewolves_ , for electroshock.

Maybe they hadn’t been planning on getting caught.

They were certainly ballsy enough about things like _murder_ that weapons’ violations might not even register on their radar let alone vandalism and disturbing the peace that his dad _already_ had them dead-to-rights on before he even stepped out onto the pavement of the dingy gas station lot.

Or they were used to cops looking the other way.

Whatever it was: Argent and his goons had done fucked up and given Stiles a way to – without really doing anything at all – send a message to anyone looking to hunt indiscriminately in Beacon County that they were going to have to _watch their fucking step_.

They might wiggle out of some charges or try and play the ignorance card, but Stiles knew his dad.

And he was going to _nail them to the wall_ if the Sheriff got his way, especially since he possessed a soft spot, no matter how hidden for the most part, for the last remaining Hales after the barely-there job the arson investigator at the fire department had allowed to go on into the Hale Fire _accident_.

_“Gentlemen_ ,” his dad was saying, forcing Stiles to tune back in.

…

“Gentlemen.”  Noah took a cool glance around the scene, motioning one of his deputies inside the store to start collecting statements and the video evidence from the cameras he knew – from a few petty thefts every so often – were in place.  “We got a call about a disturbance.”  He gave a barely-there dip of his chin at the wound-tight statue his houseguest had become before cutting his gaze back over to pin down a new resident of his fine county.  “Mr. Argent.  I don’t believe I know your… _friends_.”

Chris Argent had come in with his wife to register _quite_ the selection of firearms with the sheriff’s department, which was understandable for a firearms dealer, and open up communication over a possible contract with the BCSD.

This little… _incident_ made Noah glad he’d been able to pawn him off as their current contract wasn’t up for another year.

The kind of man who got his kick tormenting a trauma survivor like Derek Hale on the heels of his sister’s murder wasn’t the kind of man Noah wanted _anywhere_ near the workings of his department or to entrust with the weapons equipping his people.

Observant hunter’s eyes had caught the little sign of greeting between the Sheriff and the wolf, Chris cursing inside his head at it since if there was a history – or a familiarity at least – there, it would make swinging the lawman in the direction of sympathizing with Chris over _anything_ that much harder.

He was already kissing the possibility of the department contract goodbye, unless someone else managed a miracle and uprooted the two-time uncontested sheriff out of his publicly held office.

Yeah, not likely, not in a place like Beacon County where Noah Stilinski was well-liked and kept a firm hand on the almost non-existent criminal element.

That he managed that despite the place being a bit of a supernatural hot-spot was rather impressive for someone thought by the hunter information lines to be completely unaffiliated with the things that went bump in the night on _either_ side of the spectrum.

Though given the lack of anything resembling _nerves_ on the face of the wolf at the arrival of the sheriff and his deputies, Chris might need to have another – deeper – check into the background of one Sheriff Noah Stilinski, former Gunny with the United States Marine Corps before moving to Beacon County as a deputy in ’94 a few months before the birth of his son.

Chris rattled off the names of the four hunters who’d followed him to Beacon Hills, all working for Argent Arms in one capacity or another, thankful that his man inside the sheriff’s department was on duty since unless he was very much mistaken all five of them were likely to end up cooling their heels in lockup until they could be bailed out.

Which since it was a Sunday evening in a small NoCal county, wouldn’t be until tomorrow morning at the absolute earliest.

“So,” Noah pondered, pacing around to the back of the Camaro and taking in the busted-in rear windshield and the far-too-close SUVs.  “Someone want to tell me what happened here?”  He cut a chilly glance at the muscle before pinning down Argent with his iced-over blue eyes once more.  “Argent?”  He prompted when Derek shifted and looked away, jaw tight and a muscle working away as he tried to hold onto his temper.

“Just a bit of a greeting, Sheriff.”  Chris tried – he had to at least _try_ even knowing it wasn’t going to fly – to play it off.  “The Hales and the Argents go _way_ back.”

Derek held in a derisive scoff by the skin of his teeth though the lift of his lip was nearly as instinctual as the growl that threatened to escape from his chest.

“Mr. Hale?”  The Sheriff prompted him in turn, giving both parties a chance to explain before he trotted out the eyewitnesses, video footage, and so on.

Noah was unsurprised – if a tiny bit disappointed that the younger man didn’t trust him enough to speak up willingly – at Derek’s silence.

It seemed to be a family trait: refusing to point fingers even when they knew damn-well otherwise.

Like Laura and the fire.

“Well, no one wants to talk, that’s just fine.”  He turned to the walkie-talkie on his shoulder and called for a pair of tow-trucks for the SUVs.  “Since we have video footage of vandalism, disturbing the peace, and what – unless I’m very much mistaken – are illegal weapons used in the commission of said vandalism.”

“Sheriff…”  Chris protested, shocked and eyes popping wide.  He’d figured on a ticket for disturbing the peace since Hale could be counted on to wave off police intervention like any other creature or hunter with _sense_.

“Graham, Brown.”  Noah ordered, ignoring the protests of Argent.  “Take Mr. Argent and his _friends_ to lockup: twenty-four hour hold for disturbing the peace for these three.”  He waved to Argent and the pair flanking him.  “Vandalism and weapon possession for the other two.”  He arched a brow when the quintet seemed to tense in unison, tiptoeing on the line of visibly wanting to resist arrest and knowing better than to even try and make things worse for themselves.  “Unless they’d like to stack on resisting arrest, harassment, and whatever _else_ I can think of between here and the office?”  He paused, arching an expectant brow and nodding when all of them lifted their hands almost in sync and allowed his deputies to do their work, Tara sticking Argent and his pair in Noah’s car and the other two in her own.  “Smart choice.”  He noted with narrowed eyes and a short nod, tone just a fraction away from patronizing.

“Sheriff, I…”  Derek said quietly as Noah wandered over with his notepad open to take a preliminary statement from his houseguest though everything else from here on out would have to proceed without his direct involvement due to both Stiles being a witness and the utter absence of impartiality he could manage when it came to Derek Hale.

“It’s fine, Derek.”  Noah sighed, feeling exhaustion crushing him down in a fresh wave at the broken-up look in those wounded hazel eyes.  For a guy who didn’t say much most of the time from what Noah could tell, his eyes tended to be unusually expressive.  Something unless he was mistaken Stiles had already caught wise to.  “Old problems, right?” 

He remembered a bit of drama over the years since he and Claudia had moved to Beacon Hills following his job there between Argents and Hales but it had been _so damn many_ years, almost fifteen, since the last time there was anything really _real_ to deal with regarding it that it had slipped his mind until Argent mentioned it and it clicked.

Derek snorted.  “That’s one way to put it.”

“How would you put it?”  Noah pressed, taking notes of the scene and the damage to the Camaro.  They’d need to put together an estimate of damage for the preliminary charges but until Derek actually had it replaced and the car cleaned up they wouldn’t know if they were looking at misdemeanor vandalism or a felony.  Given that it was a muscle car, one was as likely as the other.

And that was _before_ he stacked on everything else that a single viewing of Stiles’s little video – let alone whatever they would get off the gas station cameras – had given him.

“It was bad enough for a while that my mom making a truce with Chris’s mother Rebekah nearly started an inner-family war between her and my uncles.”  Derek admitted, chewing over how to reference hunters and shifters _without_ actually referencing hunters and shifters.  “It was a tense few months when I was little, didn’t know it was over the Argents until I was about ten or so when Peter explained it to me.”

“What was it over?”

“Alexander Argent’s suicide from what Peter had to say.”  Derek jerked a shoulder in a half-shrug.  “Don’t know it that’s true or not or if it went back further than that but that was when it got _tense_ until Mom and Rebekah cooled things off.  The Argents and their kids moved and things settled down until…”

Noah nodded, understanding the implied _until the fire_ , and not wanting to exacerbate _that_ gaping wound anymore than it likely had been tonight since he knew as well as any that the Arco was between the hospital and his house.

With Stiles inside gathering up what looked like a store’s worth of junk food, done with giving Rodriguez his own preliminary statement and skipping his way out of the gas station’s store front.

“Heya Pops!”  Stiles chirped, as sarcastically inappropriate as ever.  Quite the shit-starter his boy.  Half the time Noah didn’t know if he should be proud or fear for humanity.  “Guess that’s going to be a goose-egg on dinner tonight, huh?”

“I’ll try and make it up later in the week.”  Noah sighed, tension creeping back into his shoulders after their temporary loosening at seeing his son as bright and bold as ever despite the shit-storm Argent had tried to bring down on their night.  “You boys okay?”

Derek blushed and ducked his head sheepishly while Stiles just smirked.

“Better than that asshat is going to be.”  He snarked, a dark look in his eyes before he played up – and played dumb – for his dad.  Since they hadn’t had the shifter-magic-hunter convo yet.  Yet.  It was looking like for all Stiles’s reluctance to drag his dad into the supernatural tornado that his life had become in the last week that he wasn’t going to have any option in the matter.  “Who was he?”

Noah just shot him a _look_ , knowing better than anyone just how wicked his son’s unique combination of genius and protectiveness could rouse into a vindictive fury if given both incentive and a target.

“Let us handle it, Stiles.”  Noah sighed, shaking his head before reaching out and scrubbing one hand over his boy’s prickly-short hair and smirking over the ineffectual protests on the part of his son.  Some things _never_ got old.  “Don’t bring down fire and brimstone until the sheriff’s department and the county prosecutor have had our cracks at them, yeah?”

Stiles pouted a moment, Derek watching the byplay between father and son with growing incredulity, not the least of which was a whiplash storm of _they’re doing this for ME?!?!?!_ , then shook it off and tossed the bag of jerky into the footwell of the Camaro’s passenger seat.

“Straight to our place.”  Noah told them both, a bit more for Stiles – he knew his son – than for Derek who he trusted to have at least a _bit_ of sense.  “There should be plastic sheeting that we use in the backgarden to tape up the Camaro in the garage, Derek.  Most places around here won’t be open to give you a quote until morning.”

“Okay, Sheriff.”

“Noah.”  He prompted the younger man with a smirk his son had stolen right off his face.  “Derek, we’ve had this discussion.  It’s Noah.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

Groaning and rolling his eyes as his son snickered, the Sheriff turned and strode off into the gas station proper to see what was taking Rodriguez so long to collect a preliminary statement and get the camera footage from the clerk.

“Dude, Sourwolf.”  Stiles laughed, almost helplessly, as the large wolf shifter slumped into the driver seat.  “You’re a hidden troll aren’t you?”

Derek just arched a brow with a smirk of his own dancing in his eyes, then started the performance car with a roar of the engine, the tow trucks having given him enough room to at least pull out of the lot, and took off for the Stilinski home.

If it warmed his heart – just a bit, or a lot – to see hunters, especially _Argent_ hunters, hauled away in cuffs that was no one’s business but his own even if their money and smarmy lawyers would probably have them back out on the streets and targeting him and what little remained of his family in no time at all.

…

There was only one hiccup in the beginning of the week for Stiles and it came in the form of puppy-dog eyes from his best-friend and a cold-shoulder at lunch after Scott dragged him over on Monday to sit with his Facebook-official girlfriend Allison as well as the rest of the beautiful people of Beacon Hill High School’s sophomore class including Lydia Martin, goddess of all things, and Jackson “Jackass” Whittemore.

“Okay…”  Stiles took in the chilly silence at the “popular table” as he sat down and the visual-eye-war that was going on between Scott and Allison.  “Someone want to tell me what I did because, yeah, drawing a blank.”

Other than existing in the same sphere as the popular lacrosse first-liners and Goddess Lydia anyway.

“Allison’s dad got arrested last night.”  Scott finally blurted out, gaining himself a smack to the arm and a sheepishly-ducked head.

“By my dad.”  Stiles finished the thought with a wince.  “I’m guessing that last name Scott never used and I had no idea of because we don’t share any classes is Argent, huh?”

Which was interesting in a _what-the-fuck_ way.

That was some Romeo and Juliet bullshit he was totally going to call Scotty on later, not to mention what _Derek’s_ reaction was going to be and that was before he added in the fun-fact that pop culture believed silver killed werewolves not because of the metal but because they saw Argent in some text or another and translated it into the metal instead of connecting it to the family of werewolf hunters.

“Allison Argent.”  She said with a try at one of her Disney Princess smiles that was more like a grimace but Stiles gave her props for trying.  “Chris is my dad.”

“Yeah…”  Stiles shifted, looking _anywhere_ but at the kicked-puppy brown eyes on his best-friend.  “Sorry.”

Allison groaned, slumping, frustration coming through in every line of her form as Scott wrapped a consoling arm around her shoulders.

“My mom won’t even _tell me_ what’s going on.”  She said bitterly, stabbing viciously at her salad.  “If I hadn’t overheard her calling our lawyer she probably would’ve tried to say he went on a last minute buying trip or something.”

“I’m sure it’s all just a mix up, Ally.”  Scott, sweet, simple _Scott_ , tried to reassure her, sending significant looks at Stiles and then his forlorn girlfriend that Stiles in turn tried to pretend he didn’t understand as he unwrapped his meaty-mountain of a sandwich that he’d made himself that morning before school.

His allowance, job at the community center, random tutoring job, and rather-lucrative business of selling essays and research papers online combined into a decent income – especially for a sixteen-year-old – but even so he didn’t want to blow it all on Jimmy Johns subs and burgers at In-n-Out to feed his new shifter-inspired need for protein.

At least being a teenage boy covered most of his improved appetite, thus far his dad passing it off as Adderall not fucking with his stomach anymore and allowing him to put on some weight.

That his dad _also_ hadn’t seen him without a shirt or pants since he’d been Bitten and his body started changing – which according to Derek should stabilize now, no more randomly-sprouting eight-pack abs – probably contributed to that belief along with Derek’s appetite making Stiles’s own seem less shocking since he wasn’t much behind him when it came to putting away servings of beef-and-lentil stew or salmon with wild rice and quinoa.

“ _Do you want me to lie to her?”_   Stiles hissed too quiet for anyone not shifter-powered to pick up.  “ _I was there Scott: it’s definitely_ not _a mistake.”_

Scott’s eyes popping wide and jaw dropping with shock at the _look_ Stiles gave him in conjunction with a significant nod caught Lydia’s all-seeing eyes.

“What?”  Lydia snapped, eyes narrow as she twirled a lock of strawberry-blonde hair around one perfectly manicured finger.

If it weren’t for Stiles’s new instincts and senses telling him just _how fucking not interested_ she was, as well as his own last-six-months of introspection making him close to giving up on that crush anyway, he might swoon.

Or spout poetry, which he _may or may not_ have done regarding the subject of one Lydia Martin in the past.

“What do you know, Stilinski?”  Jackson added gruffly complete with a shove to one of Stiles’s shoulders from across the table when it looked like the spaz was going to ignore his girlfriend’s question.

Since no official charges had been brought, it wasn’t like Jackson could tap his own parental resource to satisfy Lydia, leaving Stilinski as the only one with information on tap.

Which, actually, happened more often than any of the kids in their class would like to admit since as much as they liked to talk shit about and/or ignore the spaz, he was both vicious when it came to payback and _always_ seemed to know the latest dirt of goings-on at the sheriff’s department.

Rather than say anything, Stiles simply pulled up the video on his phone – which didn’t have any volume – and handed it over to Allison for her to see the showdown for herself.

Long minutes passed as the others crowded around the girl, who gasped when the thugs broke out the window on Derek’s car, Allison replaying the video when it ran out as Stiles rambled out what he knew – and what wouldn’t have his dad _or_ Derek screaming at him over sharing information he shouldn’t – technically – have.

“As far as I know, there’s some beef between the Argents and the Hale family – that’s who owns the Camaro, Derek Hale – that started back in the seventies.”  Stiles shifted uncomfortably as the eyes of the other kids locked on him, Scott finally handing Stiles back his phone when Allison didn’t replay the video for a third time.  “From what I know about California’s criminal laws, vandalism and disturbing the peace are locks, with possible weapons charges for the guys to actually broke the windows since batons are illegal for civilians to carry.”  He gulped, looking down at his sandwich.  “And that’s only if my dad didn’t find more illegal or modified weaponry on them or in their cars since those were towed to the station and he had probable cause for a search without needing to wait for a warrant like he might get for their residences.”

When Allison jumped to her feet with a sob and ran from the table, Scott not far behind her, Stiles sighed and gathered up his lunch, intending to go and finish it out on the bleachers outside.

Fuck.

He _hated_ being the bearer of bad news.

…

Over the next several days while Stiles was enjoying a semi-normal school week (other than Shifter 101 with Derek and Scott) and his normal routine, which included having to get Sensei to cover for him with his Dad regarding his spending Thursdays getting training from Sara instead of at kendo, Scott gushed over his “awesome” date with Allison, and Derek worked on clearing his way through the red-tape surrounding the Hale Trust and taking over management of the Preserve when he wasn’t searching for the rogue alpha or visiting Peter; the Sheriff found himself entangled in one problem after the other.

For starters, the murders of Laura Hale followed up less than a week later by that of a pair of ex-con arsonists became the biggest – and most worrisome – trail of violent deaths in Beacon Hills since the Hale Fire.

And coincidentally, gave Noah all the leverage he needed to reopen the Fire case since both Reddick and Unger had been questioned regarding it and Laura’s family had been the ones killed, turning what at first glance appeared to be three unconnected crimes into a possible link to a six-year-gone cold case that had always bothered him.

Then.

Then there was the Argent issue that Stiles – rightfully, since Derek probably wouldn’t have reported it himself if Noah knew anything about the younger man at all – dropped in his lap which was a whole different can of worms and had both of his techs and all of his deputies as well as himself working overtime as if the attacks in the preserve wasn’t already stretching their resources.

An issue that had calls flooding his office from both the State police and the lieutenant governor of all damn people regarding the “upstanding” Christopher Argent who he’d stretched the hold from twenty-four hours up to seventy-two when a search of the weapons on his person and in his vehicle as well as those of his “friends” showed non-standard to down-right illegal modifications.

Clearly, Argent or his wife or lawyer or whoever was working to pull strings while the man himself was stuck in lock-up, hadn’t taken a good accounting of Noah’s measure since all the attempts at getting him to release him without charges did was piss him the fuck off.

A feeling that David Whittemore, for all that the pair often butted heads over their boys’ contentious relationship, seemed to share if the pissy look on the prosecutor’s handsome face was any sign.

Pressure, pressure, pressure and all any of it did was make him want to nail the quintet even _harder_ to the wall and that was before the warrants served on the residences of the men turned over even _more_ illegal weaponry with very illegal ammunition and modifications.

Which, really, left Noah with just one question: what the fuck _exactly_ was the “avid sportsman” and his friends _hunting_?

Because with sniper rifles, ammo tainted with poison, and other strange or just _weird shit_ found in four of the five houses/apartments, Noah believed less and less that it was bear, deer, or even trophies and more prey that stood on two legs and was damn well _aware_ it was being targeted.

And, in hindsight, explained a _lot_ that had bothered him for years about the Hale fire.

He needed to talk to Derek, of that much he was certain by mid Tuesday.

But _first_ , he had a newcomer to Beacon County to put the fear of god and the law into or he’d burn Argent Arms to the ground alongside Chris Argent’s chances of _ever_ getting his firearm dealer licenses back in any state, let alone federally.

…

“We’ve issued warrants and conducted searches at the residences of yourself and your _friends_ , Mr. Argent.”  Deputy Tara Graham explained, the Sheriff talking in her ear through an earpiece but not able to actually _be_ in the room or conduct any of the searches because of the victim of vandalism being Derek Hale.

County Prosecutor David Whittemore sat next to her while Argent was flanked by his wife and their attorney.

“What we found is worrisome to say the least.”  Graham continued.  “Though your residence was clear of the tainted ammunition found in your personal sidearm that you were wearing during your arrest or found in your car, that alone is enough to add weapons charges to the disturbing the peace charges you were already facing.”

“Which would be felonies.”  Whittemore added with a knowing arch of his brow.  “And would shut down Argent Arms for the foreseeable future as the licensing for your company is under _your_ name alone despite your wife being listed on the board of directors.”  He nodded to Victoria Argent genially enough as she was one of the few people who _hadn’t_ been flooding his office with calls to have her husband released.

If only Argent’s father and sister were as circumspect, since David remembered Gerard from when he was younger.

There was little doubt in his mind that the one responsible for the pressure from the state police and the governor’s office was none other than Gerard, though he suspected that the Sheriff being relatively new to Beacon Hills by their standards likely had never met the man to know where the pressure was originating from.

Though if Chris and his family stayed and continued to cause problems David was certain Stilinski would learn quickly enough.

Chris opened his mouth to speak only to be waved down by his attorney.

“What do you want, Whittemore?”

“Your client will plead guilty to the disturbance charges, which would be considered a lesser charge, and finish serving out the week in jail that it comes with as well as paying the maximum fine of a thousand dollars.  The tainted ammunition will be confiscated and an official warning regarding modified and illegal ammunition will be put on record.”  David rattled off, nearly able to _feel_ Stilinski seethe from behind the two-way glass but with the pressure and the lack of additional tainted ammo and illegal weaponry found at the Argent home, their lawyer could – and would – argue that what was found in Chris’s car belonged to one of the other men.  He could probably win the case, that wasn’t in question.

He just doubted it would be worth either the headache or the cost in the end, especially with the hell Gerard was capable of raining down on their heads during the process.

“In return for…?”  Victoria asked, a dark look marring her attractive face.  They all knew the score, after all.

“Guilty pleas from the rest of your _friends_ , who will serve the full sentence and weight of charges including vandalism, disturbing the peace, possession of illegal weapons, tainted ammunition, and so on.”  Whittemore rattled off.

“How are we…”  The Argent’s attorney started to protest only to be cut off by a knowing _look_ shared between Whittemore and Chris.

They both knew the score after all.

David might not _know_ what the deal was with the Argents and their so-called “hunting buddies” but he’d gone to school with Chris and seen his dad and sister in action, seen how their _friends_ treated them.

Militia, hunting buddies, whatever-the-fuck they wanted to call it, three out of five people in the room and another behind the glass – while Noah wasn’t completely cognizant of who he was dealing with he was starting to have an _idea_ which had him itching to speak to Derek, something he just hadn’t had time for – knew that Chris could, and if he didn’t want his business ruined, _would_ , manage to arrange the guilty pleas on the others.

“In seven years you’d be able, as long as no further charges are brought,” Tara supplied a half-hearted bright-side to the deal.  “Submit a request to have the disturbance charges expunged from your record.”

Chris and Victoria shared a glance, then Victoria nodded.

She’d see to it.

“Deal.”  Chris sighed.

Damn.

They _really_ needed to work on getting the Sheriff onside if he was _this_ damn efficient against them – and that was without knowing who he was actually up against.

God only knew what he would’ve found if he’d _actually_ been looking for it.

Though one thing was certain however things panned out – and no matter how pissed off Chris and Vicky were – hunters were going to have to watch their step in Beacon County so long as Noah Stilinski was Sheriff.

…

Stiles made it to Thursday and his next lesson with Sara – squeezing in another visit to Peter now that he _knew_ how important contact was for shifters and smelling Derek all over Peter’s room which made him feel good for the catatonic wolf even if all Derek did was sit, hold his hand, and brood (which was a guess, maybe Derek did more than that but he hadn’t been there when Stiles visited so…) – before he managed to find a clear hour where his dad was both a) home and b) not completely exhausted to have a talk about the big not-a-muggleborn conversation with his pater.

Honestly, considering the massive garden his mom had planted and they’d kept up in her memory, complete with a _lot_ of plants and even trees that he now, thanks to his welcome-to-magic books that Sara had given him and his internet searching, knew had magical uses and/or properties he was banking on Mom being the magic in his bloodstream.

Which would be awesome.

Everyone talked about how much like his Mom he was.

His energy.  The dark hair, the pale skin, the moles.  His eye color.  The rambling and/or babbling about things he got excited about.

But when it came down to it, he was – in his considered opinion – a _lot_ more like his Dad for all that, mostly, he wasn’t much like either of them.

So, it was with that question still hanging over his head that he pushed through the door at the Seeking Flame and waved at the petite girl manning the intake counter at the back before turning and jogging up the spiral stair to meet Sara for his magic lessons.

He wanted nothing more than to do a deep-dive through the stacks of books or rummage through the magical supplies at the Dancing Flame since he hadn’t managed to do either last time, way too busy getting mental whiplash over being _magic_ to diverge into exploration, but traffic had sucked and something told him keeping a witch waiting was _not_ a good idea.

“Stiles.”  Blue eyes sparkled at him as Sara turned when he pushed through the curtain separated the tattoo parlor’s foyer from the magic shop.  “How was your week?”  She asked as she waved him through the pass-through and led him back to the same consultation area, the same guy from last time already manning the Emporium’s counter who Stiles was pretty sure was called Arash.

“Lots of Shifter 101 lessons with a born wolf I know.”  Stiles chattered a bit, bouncing from foot to foot with nervous energy though his face brightened up at the sight of new – well, old and used but semantics – books sitting on the desk in the consult room, and a map with a crystal on a chain plus a couple other odds-and-ends sitting on the table in the center.

Sara tilted her head towards one of the chairs in wordless command, Stiles plopping – as much as he _could_ anymore with his cat-like grace upgrade – down and continuing chattering away as she poured steaming mugs of tea and placing one before him and motioning for him to drink.

Which he did.

In between sentences anyway.

“Full moon with a couple wolves, called the cops on some hunters harassing one of them at a gas station and got them locked up though I’m pretty sure one of them at least is going to get out with a slap on the wrist.”  Stiles pouted over that though he’d figured it was coming after a bit of research into the Argents.  It made him very mixed on the matter.  On one hand: happy for Allison and Scott’s relationship with her.  On the other: hunter dick out on his own recognizance in a few more days most likely.  So, it was a mixed bag.  “Charged my amulet every night, practiced growing plants from seed and sending energy to plants for growth and good vibes, lots of research, no luck on getting my cheetah to make an appearance in anyway other than eyeflare and the general stuff that presents even in human form.  Which reminds me:” Stiles perked up as a thought occurred to him.  “Amulets: can be made as a kind of personal ward, yes or no?”

Sara knew that if she glanced in a mirror she’d have the stunned face of shell-shock at the sudden outpouring of thoughts and information.

Yes, she still believed that training Stiles would be interesting.

But, she was starting to think more and more, also equally exhausting if that was what his mind was like _all the time_.

Though he drank the calming tea that was heavy on chamomile and lavender easily enough.

“In theory, yes.”  She finally said once she’d processed, noting, pleased, that for all the frenetic energy her new pupil’s magical energies weren’t nearly as manic and uncontrolled as they’d been only a week before.  And _that_ was all Stiles and his discipline with keeping up with the exercises she’d assigned him as the tea hadn’t had time to kick in yet.

A simple precaution against overloading – or nearly so – like last week.

Her coven approved of her new apprentice for _that_ ability to empower their wards that covered their businesses and several of their apartments in the upper levels if nothing else.

“In practice,” Sara continued, something in her brisk tone deflating the teen a bit before he perked back up at the next part.  “That’s not what they’re meant for.  There’s other ways of creating personal warding or protection spells that stay inactive unless needed that are much more effective.”

“Like?”  Stiles asked, a focused look locking into place in his eyes.  “Because I found some information on wards that can protect an area against a magic user trying to tap into the magics of the area, like focus sites, or even against being found, and given what you told me about others wanting my spark until I get badass enough to defend myself it seems like a more reliable solution than keeping me muted with an amulet that might not work all the time if I lose it even if I charge it and do my meditations like a good cheetah-spark hybrid.”

Honestly, that Stiles was capable of saying all that without taking a breath made Sara look forward to his abilities with chant-work that required long strands of words and spells without pause or losing focus.

But, in the meantime: baby-steps.

“If you have access to one, an enchanter who specializes in tattooing can ink permanent protections onto your skin.”  Sara said, smirking, since that was _exactly_ what her brother and husband both specialized in at the _Bound Flame_ next door.

“You have to be eighteen in California to get a tattoo.”  Stiles pouted, slumping.  So much for that idea.  “So that doesn’t really help me.”

Sara snorted, rolling her eyes.

She barely knew Stiles but her initial scan of him where she saw his inner-cheetah and more told her how much care the boy gave to _laws_ – and it wasn’t much.

An interesting dichotomy, given how deeply inset his beliefs regarding justice were.

From what she could tell, Stiles fell in the contextualism school of ethics, instead of adhering to a strict right/wrong, good/evil ethos.

But then, from what she’d seen, Stiles seemed to be built almost entirely out of dichotomies and personality traits that _shouldn’t_ work together but somehow function anyway.

“When it comes to keeping my apprentice in one piece and out of the hands of a necromonger.”  She noted drily.  “I’m sure my brother will be willing to make an exception if such a thing is truly something you’re interested and not a fleeting fancy.  To which end we will shelve this line of enquiry for at least a month and revisit it at the end of that time.”

“Fair enough.”  Stiles admitted with a little bob of his head.  Since, yikes, needles, tattoos, permanent body modification.  Not exactly decisions that should be made on the fly.  Though the implications had given him a whole new line of research he needed to dive into while he worked out if he was interested in it one way or another.  “Next?”

“Scrying.”  Sara unfurled the map and gestured for him to pick up the crystal.  “One of the basic tools for magic users with an active gift – which you most certainly do – how it works is…”

…

Sara ran him through the three main types of scrying – which served different purposes depending on what you were trying to do – using a crystal like a pendulum to locate something, in water to see something, and captromancy which was like water-scrying but using a mirror.  Then she spent the rest of their time answering more of his questions on random topics he’d found during his other research, answering that, _yes_ , one of his parents came from a magical family if they weren’t magical themselves – apparently his magic was too strong for anything else – testing his speed and efficiency with sending energy to his amulet, and then handed over more books and assignments for the next week.  And at last set him loose in the _Dancing Flame Emporium_ and then the book store downstairs even if she kept an eye on him the whole time and vetoed a couple of his purchases.

In his defense, the boline inset with an obsidian handle inlay looked _wicked_.

In Sara’s, he wasn’t – yet – at the stage where he’d be harvesting his own herbs for specific enough purposes that he’d need a boline for that task alone, and he’d better _not_ be playing with blood magic without supervision, nixing any need of his own ritual tool of that type.

Yet.

He was hanging onto that _yet_.

That she also blocked him from buying a book on rituals using blood magic was, therefore, understandable if something of a buzz-kill.

Awesome, powerful, but ridiculously dangerous was what he’d gotten so far regarding blood magic.

Understandably, Sara didn’t want him dabbling with it until he had more than a week’s magical education.

Which meant, naturally, he was insanely fascinated with the subject.

However, based on the _look_ Derek got when Stiles idly complained about Sara helicopter-mom’ing his areas of magical study, Stiles had to reevaluate that _awesome_ in his nascent understanding of blood magic to terrifying if the mere mention of it made a badass born wolf-shifter go milk-pale and demand that Stiles follow everything his mentor demanded regarding safety and precautions if he really _was_ interested in blood magic.

And then, come Friday with no new bodies or violent crimes having popped up in almost a week, and Scotty out on a double-date after the first (winning, naturally) lacrosse game of the season – which, _not cool bro_ – with Allison and the Lydia-Jackson train wreck, Stiles finally managed to have the father-son heart-to-heart he’d been putting off for over a week.

Needless to say, it didn’t go exactly like he’d planned.

In his defense, however, for once that derailment wasn’t _entirely_ his fault.

So there (Derek and his eyebrows of judgey-judgement.)

…

Noah sat down to a post-game dinner with his son – he’d missed it in preference for _finally_ clearing his desk enough to have a meal, however late, with his boy – of steaks and cheese-topped broccoli with a relieved sigh and suspicion in his heart at the sight of a meal with enough flavor and fat that had his _oh-shit-Stiles-killed-someone_ alarms ringing.

When Stiles set a chilled beer down next to his plate and barely complained about Scott ditching him for his double date, Noah actually feared the end of times for a split second.

And scrambled for a topic that hopefully would, maybe, distract Stiles enough from what was bothering him to have it tumbling out along with his normal babble.

Though, that said, he _really_ enjoyed his steak even if his portion was half the size of his kid’s.

It was still an inch and a half thick ribeye so he’d take it regardless.

“Where’s Derek?”  Noah asked, having noted the growing – he wouldn’t call it _comfort_ or _ease_ , there was too much under-the-surface tension there for that – comradery, maybe, between their guest and his son.  And with Stiles siccing Noah and his deputies on Argent on Derek’s behalf he was starting to bet with himself over how long it would take his boy to admit to his unofficial adoption of the unknowing Derek.

Stilinskis did that.

If they liked you, that was _it_.

You were stuck with them for life or until you did something bad enough – which, yes, _was_ possible – to kill their loyalty.

It was, granted, _hard_ to do but not impossible.

Derek would have to figure that out for himself and it really wasn’t much of a stretch since Stiles had already collected his uncle six years ago to add to the small group of Stiles’s People alongside Noah himself and Scott since Noah – despite the friendship between Noah and how friendly Stiles was with Melissa – had never seen the fierce, unwavering advocacy on Mel’s behalf from his son that he would expect for someone Stiles considered “his.”

“Probably disobeying the hospital’s visitor policy if I have to guess.”  Stiles offered instead of “prowling the preserve looking for a crazy rogue alpha” since no way he could figure out to allude to that idea without actually letting the wolf out of the bag – yet – wouldn’t go over well at all.  “From what I can tell when he’s not in and out of lawyer offices and city hall and banks to get his trust and the preserve stuff figured out he’s spending most of his time with Peter.”

As it was, Stiles wanted to finish buttering his dad up with bad-for-him steak and cheesy sauced broccoli before he went for the _hey-I’m-a-magical-cat-freak-of-nature_ conversation.

Thankfully, he’d come up with a way to broach the topic that if his dad was completely unaware of all things mythical and factual at the same time would keep the older man from sending Stiles straight to Eichen House.

“Alright, kid.”  Noah sat back against the wooden kitchen chair as Stiles hopped up after dinner and cleared their empty plates and the decimated platter of steak and bowl of cheesy broccoli.  Including getting him a second beer, which is all kinds of a red flag as if the steak wasn’t enough on its own.  “Lay it on me: what did you do?”

“What, Dad?”  Stiles protested with a flail of his hands, though he didn’t drop the small – just a couple inches in diameter – simple peat pot on the floor like he would’ve just two weeks before.  “How can you say that about your loving and amazing son?”

“And up to something.”  Noah commented drily, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms loosely over his chest, cold beer bottle held easily in one hand as he watched his boy set a couple things on the small round table between them.  He recognized it all easily enough.  Stiles wasn’t the only one doing the upkeep on Claudia’s garden after all, though in recent years the bulk of the work _had_ shifted from Noah’s shoulders over to Stiles even if they tended to manage it between them as a joint labor of love.  “You forgot _up-to-something_.”

Stiles muttered something about _suspicious minds_ that didn’t have any real heat or force behind it, getting a small cup of water from the tap and setting it next to the peat pot, dropping a seed-starter pellet in the bottom of the pot, and then showing his dad a simple acorn he’d found in the shed along with the peat pots when he went looking after using everything Sara had given him for practice, and adding water to the peat pot.

The pair watched in silence as the pellet expanded up and around the acorn, Noah arching an expectant – if puzzled – brow but going with the bit of show-and-tell he was sure would connect with whatever his son wanted to tell him.

Even if only tangentially, Stiles’s brain didn’t always move in linear ways.

Though in _this_ case, the little show-and-tell was more of a byproduct to keep his dad from jumping to strange explanations of tampering rather than what Stiles _actually_ did next as he locked eyes with his dad, let his own flare feline gold, and touched just the barest tips of his fingers to the starter soil.

Channeling and cycling his energy and power through the soil and the acorn, it took all of a few second while his dad was still mesmerized and gaping at the strange sci-fi effect of his son’s eyes for the acorn to force-sprout.

Less than a minute later and Stiles had a live oak seedling a few inches tall and ready to be transplanted to a deeper pot with roots threatening to push out of the peat-pot and his dad heaving a heavy sigh.

Noah sat up, draining the rest of his beer, and setting the empty bottle aside.

“Well,” he rubbed a sheepish hand over the back of his neck.  “I guess it’s time we talk about your mom’s family, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From BBC's Introduction to Ethics:
> 
> Situation Ethics (Contextualism)
> 
> In situation ethics, right and wrong depend upon the situation.
> 
> There are no universal moral rules or rights - each case is unique and deserves a unique solution.
> 
> Situation ethics rejects 'prefabricated decisions and prescriptive rules'. It teaches that ethical decisions should follow flexible guidelines rather than absolute rules, and be taken on a case by case basis.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A trio of characters from Shelly Laurenston's shifter-verse show up here, but if anything the only one that might - maybe, still not certain - make himself a recurring character is Ric Van Holtz since this still isn't a real crossover with that or the Kresley Cole Lore-verse but I dunno...

** Apex Predators **

_Last Time:_

_Noah sat up, draining the rest of his beer, and setting the empty bottle aside._

_“Well,” he rubbed a sheepish hand over the back of his neck.  “I guess it’s time we talk about your mom’s family, huh?”_

…

**Chapter Eight: Nothing Binds Like Family**

“That’s where I get it?”  Stiles swallowed harshly, mind in nothing short of turmoil at that confirmation – however sideways – that his dad knew, at least partially, about what went bump in the night.  “Mom?”

“Yeah.”  Noah leaned forward, clasping one hand over Stiles’s wrist near the seedling he’d just force-grown, a trick he’d seen his wife perform – though not nearly as fast – more times than he could count over the years they’d been married.  “You do.”

“Why-” Stiles’s breath stuttered alongside his heart.  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?  Why didn’t Mom?”

Noah chuckled a little, squeezing his son’s wrist then letting go, knowing that Stiles might need to be up and pacing and _moving_ and _doing_ for this conversation instead of being pinned down.

“I’ve always said your Mom was magic.”  Noah smirked as Stiles’s eye popped wide with realization.  “It’s not my fault no one ever took me seriously.  And she didn’t know for sure if you would inherit it or what you would be if you did inherit it.”  He frowned, thinking back to the conversations they had on the subject before ever deciding to have children at all, then again when they found out that Claudia was pregnant with a boy.  “Something about the, uh, _clan_ she came from in Wales having different gifts passed down to boys and for girls.”

Now it was Stiles’s turn to frown as _that_ tickled at something he’d come across recently but he couldn’t – yet – pin it down among the mass of magical knowledge and shifter information he’d been cramming in his head over the last week and a half or so.

“She knew you were _something_ , she always said so, especially with how good in the garden you were and how well the plants grew when you spent time with them out there.”  Noah jerked a thumb towards the back of the house and the expansive gardens they’d kept up between them.  Though they’d long since slacked off on the more exotic and time-consuming plants Claudia had grown in the tiny greenhouse.  “But there’s levels or something and a lot of information that never quite made sense to me.”  He rose, motioning for Stiles to follow after him.  “Which, thankfully, you don’t have to rely on my memory for.”

Noah led his son up into the attic and over into a corner he’d never noticed before tucked away behind dusty boxes of dead Christmas lights and wedding gifts that were ugly as sin but his parents had been too polite to toss.

There stood a chest, about the size of a steamer trunk, made entirely of a natural unstained wood that even from across the _room_ Stiles could sense as magical even before he helped his dad muscle the boxes out of the way and revealed the honey-toned wood that still, after years and years, carried the scent and shine of protective beeswax.

Stiles had _no earthly idea_ what type of wood it was beyond magical since it was _definitely_ coming from the wood itself and not any enchantments or protections on the chest.

It was just a chest.

But an insanely magical one built of magical wood.

New topic to research the shit out of then, since he’d learned from Sara and his own research that wood and plants and stones _could_ be magical but it was generally more background noise compared to the ways they were purposed and used and empowered.

Not like this thing.

 _Nothing_ like this thing.

And that was before he spied the sigil carved into the top of the chest and the _tickling-at-his-thoughts_ feeling he’d had when his dad mentioned his mom’s _clan_ slammed home like a bullet in a chamber.

Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

That…certainly explained a lot.

Especially why he’d never met – or his parents had never mentioned – his mom’s family before beyond “estranged.”

Yeah.

No _fucking shit_ they would be unless his dad was secretly magical too.

Though Stiles trusted his dad would’ve dropped _that_ bomb – if there was one to be dropped – before hauling him up to the attic.

Oh for the love of curly fries.  He held in a hysterical laugh as a random thought made itself known.  His parents were the real-life Andromeda and Ted Tonks, complete with the batshit-scary pureblood magical family cutting off his mom for marrying outside their "approved" pureblood cronies. Stiles was even a shapeshifter! Granted, more of the animagus-type than metamorph but still...it counted.

“I never knew where she got the wood from.”  Noah explained, running one hand over the silky-smooth finish on the chest.  “But she brought it home one day when you were about two years old and asked me to build this.  She carved the top herself, along with the carvings on the inside, and used it to store her, ah, _magic_ things away from curious little eyes and fingers.”  He shot a knowing look at his son who grinned and shuffled a bit in place at the implied censure.

Guilty as charged after all.

“It’s all in here,” Noah tapped his fingers on the top of the chest with a heart-heavy sigh.  “Everything that had to do with that part of her life.  I added what she’d kept in our room after…”  he trailed off, saddened, and shook it off when Stiles gently clasped his shoulder.  “And moved it up here.  C’mon.”  Noah moved to one end, grabbing the leather handle he’d attached to the chest on each side.  “Let’s get it down to your room.”

They carefully maneuvered the reminder of their missing piece of the Stilinski puzzle down the stairs and into Stiles’s room, the younger man running reverent eyes and hands over the smooth-grained wood before turning and looking at his dad who’d propped a shoulder in the doorway.

“What did she tell you about her family?”

“Not a lot.”  Noah admitted, sighing and eyes distant as he thought back to when he first met his wife as a young co-ed at San Diego State when he was a young buck of a Marine working on getting his criminal justice degree while he was stationed at Pendleton.  “At first just that they didn’t get along and fought over her taking a scholarship at a foreign school instead of getting married right out the gate.  Later, when she trusted me, she explained a little about being magical, did a trick similar to yours downstairs, and told me that girls in her family were expected to marry into other magical families to _strengthen ties_.”  He scowled.  “I know that she sent them a copy of our wedding announcement and they told her to never come back.”

“Yeah.”  Stiles sighed, lowering his head a moment then climbing back up to his feet.  “I was afraid of that.  From the little I know, that particular branch of magic users isn’t exactly sunshine and roses for all that they turn out girls with skill in herbalism and druidic arts every now and again.”

“You know?”

Stiles snorted rolling his eyes.  “You gave me _their name_.”  He countered drily, which, given what his dad just told him, really didn’t make much sense.  “Granted, a minor spelling difference, one “l” instead of two, but Cadwalader isn’t exactly common anymore than my monstrosity of a middle name is, regardless that it was grandpa’s first.  Add in the sigil,” he jerked a thumb at the chest behind him that had a five-fold-knot carved into the top of it.  “That only the Cadwalladers out of Wales use as an actual sigil and Mom teaching me Welsh and I’d have to be dumb _not_ to figure it out.”

“She wanted you to have a connection to them even if they never acknowledged you.”  Noah answered the unspoken question regarding the naming if things were – and are – tense between Claudia’s kin and his late wife.  “Since being a boy you had a higher chance at, uh,” he struggled a moment to think of how Claudia had put it.  “ _Manifesting_ than if you’d been a girl.”

“Yeah, that backs up the footnote I read about them in one of my books.”  Stiles snagged one of the magic-for-beginners books Sara had given him, flipping to the section on Mages and showing his dad the scant paragraph the notation on the Cadwallader Clan of mages that tended to manifest warrior-mage males and low-powered herbalist or druid females, with the latter being rather rare at only one or two a generation.  “Took a minute.”  Stiles shrugged.  “But you said _clan_ so…”

“Yeah.”  Noah sighed.  “So…um…”

“I’m getting training.”  Stiles rushed to rescue – or overwhelm, really it was fifty-fifty – his dad.  “On Thursdays instead of going to kendo.  One of the monks at the temple figured me out and set me up with a tutor.”  He shrugged helplessly at the incredulous double-brow-lift _that_ got him from his dad.  “Yesterday was only my second time.  And the first one wasn’t planned.  I just…haven’t…”

“Hey, hey.”  Noah set the book aside, fully intending to read it for himself to at least give himself a refresher on how all that hoodoo crap worked.  Claudia had told him what she could before she died but it’d been awhile and what was relevant for a husband of a mildly-powered herbalist was leagues off what he’d need to know as the dad of a possible warrior-mage or whatever Stiles ended up being as far as magic was concerned.  He wrapped his boy up in his arms, rocking the tense form of Stiles back and forth for long moments until all that coiled tension released.  “It’ll be okay, Stiles.”  He reassured him.  Jesus.  His boy was only sixteen and dealing with magic and _mage clans_ and all the bullshit that came with it.  “It’ll all be okay.”

“No, Dad.”  Stiles choked out, shaking his head and fighting back tears.  “No, I really don’t think it will be.  Because all of that is only _half_ , maybe only a third, of what I need to tell you.”

Noah blinked in shock but never stopped hugging his boy, just holding him tight.

Well.

Fuck.

That didn’t sound good.

“Alright.”  Noah wrestled his own nerves and spinning thoughts into submission and got them seated side-by-side on the edge of Stiles’s bed.  “Alright.  I can handle it, Stiles.  What _else_ is going on?”  He asked, then something clicked.  “And does it have something to do with the Hales and Argents?”

Stiles gasped a laugh, wiping away a tear-track from his face.

“You don’t have _any idea_ how much it has to deal with the Hales and the Argents.”

…

Noah felt – down to the ground – that after hearing about werewolves, _shifters,_ and hunters, let alone that his son now _was one_ complete with glowing “feline gold” eyes that he deserved a third beer.

 _More_ than deserved a third beer.

What with all the implications that the new tumble of information pouring out of his son meant both for them as a family and for the county he had sworn to protect.

“You,” Stiles fidgeted with his phone, turning it over and over in his hands for _something_ to do as his dad just sat, blank faced, and stared off into space.  “You aren’t saying anything.”  He stuttered, sucking in deep breaths and holding him and then blowing them out slowly in a simple technique Tara taught him years ago to try and stave off panic attacks.  “I, Dad, I _really_ know how much this all sucks.  Took me days to process and most of that was trying to convince Scott we couldn’t just ignore everything that was happening, but, Dad.”  His voice shook, eyes blinking away tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

Just his luck, right?

His Dad took the big magical reveal like a champ – contributed a lot more than Stiles, honestly, and you better _believe_ his brain was still spinning on that one – just to freak out over the other part of the supernatural shit storm that had become Stiles’s life.

“I,” he sucked in an unsteady breath.  “I _really_ need you to say something.  Anything.  Please.”  His voice broke.

And like a shot to the ass of adrenaline it had Noah awake from his processing-not-processing stupor and wrapping an arm around his boy’s shoulders.

Shoulders, that true to Stiles’s in-depth verbal vomit of not just being a shifter but what it _meant_ for his boy from all that he’d been able to find and research and ask from the others around who had the answers to his questions – and Noah would be tapping a few of those resources for himself, oh _yes he would indeed_ , as well as a few others that wouldn’t occur to Stiles either due to lack of knowledge or discounting them due to other reasons like Chris Argent being, well, _Chris Argent_ – were broader and more muscled than they’d been last time Noah had taken the time to notice.

Which had him digging up old memories that had atrophied the longer it tore him apart to think of his late wife.

She’d told him, some, of what went bump in the night not long after the _magic_ discussion had been had and processed by all.

“Maximum genetic potential amplified by the inherent magic of the Gift.”

Stiles blinked, shaking his head a moment in pure, honest confusion over what had just come out of his dad’s mouth.  When he’d asked for him to say something that _certainly_ hadn’t been on the list.  He couldn’t even comprehend it for a moment, let alone a world or situation where even knowing his dad _knew_ – at least some of it – that _that_ would be his dad’s response to the _more things in heaven and earth_ rant Stiles had gone on, laying out everything for his dad’s perusal and leaving nothing out.

Except that he thought Derek Hale was prettier than the wolf had any right to be and was making him undergo serious consideration of where he fell on the Kinsey scale.

He’d always thought himself – since he’d known the Kinsey scale was a thing and understood what it represented anyway – as a flexible three, but recent data added to his set made him consider that he might be a four or even a five since there were only a few, maybe a handful, of women he’d been attracted to in the past but tended to notice when guys were hot more often than not.

Having one run around him _all the damn time_ , living in his house, helping with his shifter issues, trying to keep him _and_ his best-bro safe, and doing a lot of that without a shirt on or just in a tank top had made him take a hard look at his sexuality when he wasn’t knee deep in pondering any of the other dozen or so situations demanding his attention.

On the bright side, his dad’s non-sequitur firmly knocked him out of burgeoning panic attack and into straight-up puzzlement.

“That’s the way your,” Noah sighed.  “Your Mom described what being a shifter meant on a practical level when I was freaking out over the world of everything _Other_ that hid in plain sight.  She said that they all had a kind of,” he waved his free hand idly.  “Unspoken pact of secrecy and non-revelation that even hunters followed and wouldn’t out anyone to me but wouldn’t keep quiet if she thought it was relevant to my job or our family’s safety.”

“And she died before the Hale Fire.”  Stiles whispered, shaking his head.  Fuck.  Fate was a cruel bitch.  If his Mom had still been alive and cognizant during that time, she would’ve had his dad on the Fire case in a millisecond and they wouldn’t _be_ in this mess now.  “So she never had a reason to tell you about wolf-shifters and hunters or that the Hales and the Argents _were_ wolf-shifters and a clan of hunters.”

“No,” Noah squeezed his arm around his boy’s shoulders.  “No, she didn’t.  You’re sure about that, huh?”

“That the Argents burned the Hale House down?”  Stiles chewed at the inside of his cheek as he did some mental math.  “Not a hundred percent.  But that scene between Chris Argent and Derek wasn’t exactly the normal round of _we’re watching_ I’d expect without a _lot_ of history, I just haven’t put it all together yet.  That the fire _was_ arson and it was hunters that did it?”  He blew out a breath and nodded.  “Yeah, that I’m certain of.  Especially with Peter’s burn wounds.  There’s no _way_ fire alone could retard shifter healing like that.  The fire had to be tainted with something to manage it like wolfsbane or mistletoe that got trapped in the scars as the burns healed or something.  Even as an Omega if he’d been in a normal fire and survived he would’ve been burn-free and healed by now.”

“Okay.”  Noah nodded, giving his son one last comforting squeeze then letting him go and rising to his feet with a few pops of aging joints that had a teasing smirk lighting up his boy’s face.  “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve reopened the Hale case in the wake of the current murders.  I won’t try and tell you to stay out of it.”  He added, lifting a silencing hand when Stiles got a thinking look on his face and opened his mouth to likely lodge a preemptive protest over being told to keep clear of the situation.  “I know better by now than to beat my head against _that_ brick wall.  But, for me,” Noah shot him a knowing look.  “At least keep your head down around the hunters.  They don’t just go after shifters.  From your Mom’s stories…they’ll go after _anyone_ they think is a threat.  I believe you when you say that they don’t know you or Scott are shifters now, and I’d like it to stay that way, but if they see you using magic at all they might go after you, especially if these Argent hunters are as codeless as you make them out to be and their antagonizing Derek backs up.”

Speaking of which, Noah frowned lightly, Derek’s silence on the fire as well as his reticence in the face of Chris Argent’s bullying – and make no mistake, that’s exactly what Noah saw it as now that he had all the information – made a lot more sense as Derek had never struck him as someone easily cowed.

Stiles smiled softly, jerking his head towards the open doorway.

“Go get another beer and ambush Derek when he comes in Dad.”  Stiles told him, sliding his eyes towards the chest sitting innocently at the end of his bed.  “I’ve got plenty to keep me out of trouble here but call for me and I’ll come down if he freaks, okay?”

Noah snorted, rolling his eyes.  “You remember that _you’re_ the kid and _I’m_ the dad, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles snickered, dodging out the way of the head-smack as his dad wandered away in search of that beer and to digest the massive, world-view-altering discussion they just had.  “Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night, Daddio.”

“Smartass.”

“Love you too, old man.”

…

The Cadwallader Clan.

Jesus, Mary, Joseph or Arawn, Aeron, and Arianrhod or whatever gods were listening – or not – but when Stiles started to consider the mystery of his magic and where it had come from he hadn’t thought, not seriously, that it was from them.

He should’ve – and believe him, Stiles was kicking himself for overlooking it – since as he’d told his dad: a single letter difference in spelling isn’t that big of a deterrent to putting the pieces together.

If he’d been looking in the right place.

But Stiles had thought of himself _as_ Stiles for so long that his first name had just been a remnant of his mom’s misguided and/or eccentric naming choices instead of a smoking gun pointing towards his magical heritage.

Given that she’d saddled him with the monstrosity of _Cadwalader Mieczyslaw Stilinski_ , he felt totally justified in judging her naming abilities.

And judging his Dad’s utter inability to say no to his wife but they’d both been that way with his mom so that really wasn’t fair.

Especially since if they lived in an era where names had _meaning_ – in more than magical circles anyway – and weren’t just labels to slap onto kids then he wouldn’t have an issue with the label he’d been slapped with at birth.

They were _good_ names, names with weight and meaning and heft, which had always been his mom’s argument over it, though given the cruelty of children and Stiles’s own inability to pronounce them when he was little she’d caved to the need for nicknames easily enough.

Cadwalader: from the Welsh; meaning Leader of Battle.

Mieczyslaw: Derived from the Slavic elements meaning sword and glory respectively.

Yeah, his mom had given him one hell of a label to tote around no matter how you looked at it.

One that put firm connections to his heritage as well, now that he knew what he knew.

Mieczyslaw he’d always known the origins of, being his paternal grandfather’s name, but he’d scratched his head more than once over Cadwalader, other than figuring it was a name his mom was familiar with due to being raised in Wales and speaking, then later teaching him to speak, Welsh.

Toss in that he’d been named for the Clan that she’d run from and then been asked never to return to, well, that put a different spin on things.

Even so, he kinda got it.

Males born to her family tended to be powerful as far as magic was concerned, often turning out mages, and even marrying and having her son with a magicless mortal human couldn’t take the possibility away that _Stiles_ would end up being magically powerful.  In such a case, having a solid connection to her family would only help him.  And make others – say a skanky darach looking to bleed him for his power – back the fuck off.

No one with brains from what he could tell as he dug through his tomes and books for more information on the Clan wanted to piss them off, let alone start a blood feud over killing one of their own.

Whether they’d _actually_ claim him after all-but-severing ties with his Mom was another thing entirely.

But if others didn’t know that…yeah.

He got it.

His mom wanted him to have the _possibility_ of the Clan’s protection even if he never manifested his powers or had a reason to worry about needing the firepower the Cadwalladers could bring down like the wrath of the gods if tested.

Needless to say, since the waning of the magical wars during the Witch Trials, no one really wanted to rouse the Cadwalladers from their ancestral lands near the Brecon Beacons, information he parsed from his various books, tomes, whispers of whispers online, and Claudia’s own journal that was stored inside her chest.

From his mom’s perspective, the lack of magical wars for the Clan to fight wasn’t necessarily a _good_ thing since it forced the patriarchs of the Clan to focus on other affairs instead of making craters out of their enemies, affairs like politics, advantageous marriages, and in-fighting.

Stiles didn’t blame her after reading her journal one little bit for getting the hell out of dodge rather than meekly advance her father’s – and the Clan’s – standing among the old magical families in the _Old World_ via her marriage to some highborn magical asshole.

His words, not hers.

His mom had always been the nice one of the family for all that his dad had a moral compass that was a _lot_ more firmly grounded than his wife and actually existed compared to his son’s.

He decided matters of right and wrong depending on the circumstances which drove most everyone who knew him up the wall.

But when it came down to the wire, there was only one thing Stiles gave a damn about: were you one of his or weren’t you?

From there, what needed doing or not doing was often pretty damn easy to figure out.

It didn’t make him moral or good by any means.

He didn’t need to be those things or have others think those things of him, even among his own.

That who were _his_ were safe and as happy as possible was enough for him.

Given that his mom’s early writings in her journal from before she left Wales for California made his maternal relatives seem for the most part as a bunch of narcissists more concerned with standing than giving a damn about each other, especially her dad who was – apparently – the heir to the Clan head, and boy that put a whole new spin on her marriage to his dad, Stiles figured there were a lot worse things he could be than lacking a moral compass and instead making decisions based on the situation at hand instead of a strict code.

Other fun things found thus far in his mom’s journal included the existence of an older brother.

Which was a mammoth-sized relief since even the suggestion that Stiles might be the heir of the Clan – or even close in line – was enough to make him want to break out in hives and/or run screaming into the preserve for the rogue alpha to put him out of his misery.

Pass.

Major pass.

Just…just no.

The last thing the, fuck, the _universe_ needed was Stiles – spazzy, cheetah-shifter Stiles, who lacked a moral compass and a firm concept of right and wrong – in a position of massive power at the head of a mage Clan.

Especially a mage clan which, to summarize:

  1. Included some of the scariest motherfuckers on the planet capable of using magic.
  2. Was patriarchal.
  3. Gave no shits about controlling the lives of the clan members, up to and including arranging their marriages and demanding that they procreate.
  4. His mom ran away from at the first legitimate opportunity after she was of legal age.



It was with the contents of the chest spread out on his bedroom rug that he heard the Camaro roll up and park on the street outside the house, forcing him to tune-in to things other than his own head for the moment.

There was more than his mom’s journal in the chest, though he’d gone straight for it once he realized it was the best resource he could get into his heritage…as well as a piece of his mom he’d never known.

He couldn’t be selfish with it.

He’d have to give it to his dad, in the morning most likely.

But for now…for now, he just wanted to get to know the woman that had given him so much.

From his life to his name to the magic flowing through his veins.

…

Derek spent all of Friday afternoon and evening in Peter’s hospital room, trying to hide from what he’d had to do that morning, keeping in contact – keeping grounded – with his uncle, growing more and more familiar with the routine of the long care ward and how to help the aides and nurses reposition his uncle or do his physical therapy exercises.

Anything, really that helped him focus outside of himself and the vigil he’d had to stand that morning.

He knew that if he’d asked, even vaguely mentioned it, that Noah or Stiles would’ve gone with him to the exactly one funeral home in Beacon Hills that catered to supernaturals, even if Noah didn’t know that that was _why_ Derek had signed off for Laura’s remains to be released to Bishop and Sons instead of the more commonly-used Beacon Hills Funeral Service.

But then, the latter would’ve had a _lot_ of questions about their crematorium managing to render even Laura’s _bones_ to ash but leaving behind ten rather distinct _claws_.

Whereas at Bishop and Sons it was just another day and another body dropped in Beacon Hills, even with Derek watching and waiting to ensure that his sister’s claws didn’t go missing like his mother’s nearly had in the wake of the fire.

He didn’t know which opportunistic fuck wanted to sell Talia Hale’s claws to an even sicker asshole as a trophy but they were damn _lucky_ back then that it’d been Laura dealing with them and not him.

For all that Laura was the more vicious and, yes, violent of the pair of them, when it came to their family, to their _pack_ , there was no one fiercer than Derek except their uncle Peter.

Honestly, when he thought about it that way, it almost seemed like some sick cosmic _joke_ that the two members of the Hale Pack who would move heaven and earth or raise hell itself to protect the people they love were the ones left behind to mourn everyone and everything they’d ever given half a damn about.

Which was why, with Laura’s claws in his inside jacket pocket, when he returned to the Stilinski home and found Noah watching for him with a quiet look of steely determination warring with shell-shock, all Derek could do is sigh.

Because, of course.

 _Of course_ , the day that he had to stand guard over his sister’s cremation to prevent her claws being auctioned off like a damn door prize to the highest bidder, the day he sat and stared and choked back tears as he held his catatonic uncle’s hand, and just fucking _tried_ with everything in him not to fall apart into a million microscopic pieces; _that_ was the day that Stiles decided to tell his dad his _furry little secret._

And, one thing leading to another and Derek being no more an idiot than Noah is a bad or even middling detective, that meant Noah was going to want to take a hard look at the fire.

Which, naturally, given that it has been six years and Derek was the last cognizant survivor standing, meant that Noah wanted to rehash the single most painful day and night in his life to see what shook loose to solve a case of arson that few ever believed actually _was_ arson.

Two of whom were standing – or sitting in the case of Noah – in a silent stare-off with a third upstairs and likely pretending to _not_ be dropping any eaves even though no one believed it, even Stiles.

Closing his eyes, Derek took a slow breath in and closed then locked the front door behind him with a pair of reverberating _clicks_.

“He told you?”  Derek confirmed, just for his own peace of mind regarding _keeping the secret_ before he let the shifter out of the bag.

“I already knew.”  Noah answered, Derek blinking, visibly taken aback, then the older man clarified things for the wolf.  “Not all of it.  Not about the Hales and the Argents or about Stiles’s new, ah, _status._ ” 

Noah winced, having a son who was _born_ other was one thing.  Having him be attacked and changed against his will was something else entirely and you’d better believe that if Noah found this _rogue alpha_ first Derek was going to have to beat him to putting two in their head for traumatizing and, and, _bite-raping_ a pair of teenagers, let alone everything else that’d gone down in the last couple of weeks.

“But,” he sighed, tilting his head towards the coach in a wordless offer, Derek taking him up on it and lowering himself onto the comfortable – if worn – piece of furniture with a gust of breath that wasn’t quite a sigh.  “I knew about magic and the,” he rolled his eyes a bit, thinking of some of the phrases his boy had tossed out.  Jesus, his kid.  “Peoples of myth and legend that aren’t nearly as mythical as people like I used to be like to think.”

“Stiles’s mom?”  Derek hazarded after a moment’s thought.  It was one of the few ways that outsiders learned in the end other than surviving an attack or playing witness to one.  Otherwise, they’d gotten damn _good_ at keeping themselves hidden after the oh-so-fun times of the Witchhunts and cullings during the middle ages.

“Uh huh.”  Noah studied Derek carefully, then tucked his questions away for another day.  He needed information, that was true.  But he wasn’t dogged enough or bastard enough to kick the kid when he was down.  And with that look on Derek’s face, he was definitely down.

With Laura’s memorial the next day and everything he knew better than most that went into something like that, he didn’t blame the younger man one little bit for looking two seconds from either snapping and taking out everyone in the immediate vicinity or breaking down into heartbreaking tears.

“Think you can make some time on Monday to come in and talk to me about the fire?”  Noah offered a reprieve, one that was very much appreciated if the heavy breath and sagging shoulders on Derek were any clue.  “And a few other things as recent events have given me what I need to reopen the case.”

Now that Laura wasn’t around – as shitty a thing as it was for Noah to think – to block him from digging and bringing more attention to the Hales.

Given recent events, he didn’t know that that would even be possible.

Whatever the fuck it was that had Laura running scared, it might’ve gotten her killed, or it might not’ve.

Either way: it was too damn late to worry about it now since he doubted even an act of the gods could bring down a bigger spotlight on Beacon Hills – supernaturally-speaking – than Laura’s murder and Chris Argent cooling his heels in lockup for a solid week for harassing, however one wanted to spin it, her grieving brother.

“Yeah.”  Derek’s chuckle was more a half-sob, but nobody – even a listening Stiles – would ever say a damn word about it.  “Yeah, I can do that, Sheriff.”

“Noah, Derek.  _No-ah_.”

“Yeah, Sheriff.  Whatever you say.”

…

For a memorial service that was held in the morning for a woman – wolf – who hadn’t lived in Beacon Hills for a half-dozen years, Stiles found community center rather crammed with people come to gawk, as far as he could tell, at the last-wolf-standing of the Hale Pack under the auspices of mourning Laura.

A thought that wasn’t entirely incorrect from the darker-than-usual scowl on Derek’s face as he stood at the front of the large multipurpose room next to a poster-size picture of a laughing brunette with dark brown eyes and hair and had a seemingly-unending series of terse exchanges with random people.

In the back of the program given out at the doors there was a discrete notation regarding Laura’s ashes being interred at the Hale crypt in a private ceremony, and Stiles found himself spending most of the service in a daze at the utter bullshit the memorial was.

Because, from what he could tell, at least ninety percent of it was just that: bullshit.

A dog-and-pony show for the gawkers that did little to help the only person _seriously_ mourning Laura and that looked one more limp-wristed handshake away from snapping and tearing out some asshole’s throat with his teeth.

Given that Stiles – thanks to his recent upgrade – could hear the trite platitudes that were being rained down on Derek’s head, he couldn’t say he would even blame the guy.

Especially since, also from what Stiles could tell, the only ones actually there to support _Derek_ were him, his dad, and a half-hearted and extremely-uncomfortable Scott.

Well.

That’s what he thought anyway.

Until a small group of people who’d stayed out of range for most of the service waited until near the end of the requisite food-and-drinks portion of the not-a-wake to approach Derek, which explained some of the strange scents that had been floating on the air through the entire circus and had Derek locking eyes with Stiles, who made it to the wolf’s side in almost record time, Scott having already bugged out at the earliest allowable opportunity.

They were quite the eclectic group, Stiles had to admit as he eyed them up on approach.

And every last one of them a shifter if his nose, eyes, and blaring-alert instincts weren’t lying to him.

There was an ageless Asian woman with posture that implied her spine was made of solid steel and a completely emotionless mask, a pair of Caucasian males – one much bulkier than the other though both were handsome, and a black woman who the bulkier male was clinging to like a limpet with a rather besotted look on his face when he wasn’t watching everyone and everything around them for a threat.

“Primus Stilinski,” Derek said when he arrived almost in sync with the quartet.  “The Primus of Beacon County,” which had Stiles _almost_ breaking his placid mask before he got it together since he knew _damn well_ what that meant in shifter terms – particularly _feline_ shifter terms, which none of these strangers were from what he could get off them.  “Satomi Ito, Alpha of the Ito Pack on the Hale Pack’s southern territorial border.”

And oh _fuck_.

Stiles held in his immediate desire to panic.

He was _not_ prepared for this sort of politics at a memorial though he supposed given recent events he should’ve accounted for _something_.

For Derek to basically throw him head-first into shifter politics, however, likely never would’ve even crossed his mind, so…

Maybe not.

“Primus Stilinski.”  Alpha Ito, the stern Asian wolf, unbent enough to nod.

Which since Derek had declared – in front of a neighboring Alpha nonetheless, no matter who the other three were – that Beacon County was Stiles’s territory as the biggest-baddest kitty-cat in the area, was apparently only proper.

Fuck his _life_.

Fuck it _hard_.

Because that was what a Primus was, in practical and modern terms, taken from the days when prides of lion shifters still traded their males around like breeding cattle or baseball cards.

A Prime - or top - _breeding male_.

His dad was going to have _kittens_.

No pun intended.

Though, if he’d thought about it a second longer, it totally _would’ve_ been intended all the way.

It made Stiles, spazzy, irritating _Stiles_ , equal to any Alpha and above them inside his own territory, excepting only an Alpha he chose to _share_ territory with, and would force any feline shifters or new groups of shifters seeking to move into Beacon County to seek an audience with him first before they tried to set up shop.

Except, naturally, the Hale Pack since they – like him – had a birth-right to the territory and in the case of the Hales a historical claim to it.

Damn.

Stiles could appreciate that kind of out-of-nowhere cunning from Derek, except, you know, for the part where it was as much an ambush for _Stiles_ as it was for anyone else.

“Alpha Ito.”  Stiles nodded, back, none of the lightning-fast freak-out he’d just had – and the implications of Derek’s powerplay – showing even for a moment.

“And visiting from New York to pay their respects as well are Alphas Van Holtz, Smith, and Ward-Smith.”

“Primus Stilinski.”  The trio nodded as well, the black woman – Alpha Ward-Smith apparently – jumping in when none of the others seemed prepared to do so.

At a guess, Stiles would have to say they were ready to give Derek, a now packless Beta barely a step away from an Omega, genuine condolences and _maybe_ offers of joining one of their packs given that from what he understood of shifter politics, a subject he would have to do a much greater in-depth dive into thanks to Derek, the ass, having the last-Hale-standing in a non-Hale-led pack would be one hell of a coup.

“Derek,” the name was nearly a sigh, Alpha Ward-Smith being as genuine in her words as possible from what Stiles could tell – and more than most who’d come to the memorial.

Though her scent was weird.

And more than a _this is a stranger_ _from a strange place_ weird.

But like _I’ve never smelled_ that _before_ weird, even with the strong wolf-scent rubbed all _over_ her, likely from her big-ass mate based on the matching bite scars on their shoulders that were peeking out of the collars of their shirts.

Van Holtz smelled mated as well, which was a whole new issue he’d have to discuss with Derek – among many, many others – during Shifter 101.

Until he’d run nose-first into he’d have _no idea_ that they could smell that sort of thing.

Well.

At least above and beyond _these two people are close_ or _yep, they’re fucking_.

But, like, an actual chemosignal of _fuck off, we’re taken_.

“How are you?”

Derek accepted the brief hug from Jess Ward-Smith, one of the nicest shifters he’d met in his life.

As long as you haven’t pissed her off or threatened either her pack, her mate’s pack, or a kid in her immediate vicinity.

Wild dogs were _vicious_ when it came to protecting young – their own or not.

“Dealing.”  Derek decided was the best response he had, turning his gaze towards Ric Van Holtz.

“I’ve already had Laura’s things packed up from her office.”  The alpha of the New York branch of the Van Holtz pack answered the unspoken question.  The Van Holtz’s were _old_ money in a way that few other shifter families could claim, even the Hales though they were close.  Ric’s pet-project was a sports team that Laura had worked for.  “If you’ve made a decision, we can have the apartments packed and sent or just forward her office contents to her apartment for later.”  He shrugged, not pressuring in the slightest.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

Derek sent a long, considering glance towards Stiles and then the watchful-protectiveness of the Sheriff who was one of the few remaining _vanilla-humans_ as his uncle used to put it.

“I’m home.”  Was all he had to say to the implied offers of pack.  “I think it’s time a Hale retook control of the Hale Lands.”

“Whatever you want, Derek.”  Ric agreed, taking that in and already making a dozen different plans for how that was going to effect pack politics on the West Coast for all that it was thousands of miles away from his territory.  Mainly because his cousin Nils was the Alpha of Alphas for the Van Holtz Pack and his territory encompassed most of Western Washington. And unlike most of the older Alpha males in their massive extended-family of a multi-territory pack, he actually liked his "Uncle Van" as a lot of the younger Van Holtz pups raised around Nils called him.

“Are you sure that’s a wise idea?”  Satomi arched a brow.  “Under the circumstances?”

Stiles cast a quick glance around the community center then let his eyes flare, the neighboring alpha taking an unconscious step back at the aura the unassuming teen possessed in that moment before tucking it back away, the New York alphas just watching in curiosity.

“Why?”  Stiles challenged.  “It’s not like he’s alone.  The Hales _are_ Beacon Hills, as long as Derek – and Peter – want to reside here they’re welcome.  And that’s it.”

She pursed her lips, tilting her head in a wordless gesture of concession, then turned and strode from the community center, the others watching her in vary stages and modes of consideration.

“Word of warning, given the rogue issue.”  Ric offered once Ito was out of earshot for an Alpha wolf.  “Deucalion and his merry band of psychopaths were up in Eastern Washington not too long ago.  Wiped out the Northrup Pack but the Alpha’s been missing ever since.”

“Idonie Northrup wasn’t a pushover.”  Alpha Smith “call me Smitty” added.  “But not the strongest or highest-level alpha on the West Coast either.  Might be worth considering if she ran south in the aftermath.”

“Why hasn’t someone sniped them yet?”  Derek complained, rubbing one hand over his eyes.  He’d heard about the so-called “alpha pack” here and there over the years.   Mainly from the alphas in front of them.  Despite Laura's position working for Ric, Derek had always gotten on with the Van Holtzes better than her - mainly an alpha thing from what he could tell over and above general personality conflicts between Ric and Laura - even if he’d been appropriately wary of getting involved in the insanity that were the not-quite conjoined but not-quite-not Smith and Kuznetsov Packs.

“Oh, the usual.”  Smitty chirped snidely.  “Politics, money, tradition, yada yada yada.  Duke knows who he can afford to torment and who he can’t and he hasn’t crossed that line – yet.  Especially since the Carver Pack was already on the chopping block for their bullshit before he _recruited_ the twins.”

“And none of the other packs he’s _tested_ ,” Ric added air-quotes around the word and all.  “Had the connections or alliances to make the rest of the packs with the clout to do something about him.”

“Well,” Stiles drawled, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trading a glance with Derek.  “As _cheerful_ as that is, a possible name is better than nothing so thanks.  I’m gonna…yeah.”  He wandered off, obeying the orders of Derek’s eyebrows to get lost.

It was a nice order, but an order nonetheless.

…

“Cute kid.”  Smitty chuckled, shaking his head.  “Cheetah?”

He would know, given that his security company that he ran with his partner, a lion shifter, didn’t play favorites when it came to species or status.  If you had the skills you were in.  And when it came to speed and ability to catch-every-fucking-thing on a monitor, cheetahs kicked major ass.

“Yep.”  Derek nodded, his general state of bemusement around Stiles coming through loud and clear in his scent, almost to the point of overpowering his current pervasive cocktail of grief-depression-rage.  “He’s going to be formidable if his mouth doesn’t get him killed first.”

“Bitten?”  Jess guessed, having seen signs of it in some of his mannerisms that another shifter might miss.  More because she’d gone through one hell of a clumsy phase herself in her teens than anything despite being a born-shifter.  Felines didn’t have to deal with that.  The bastards just “glowed-up” seemingly overnight.  It took a bit of time to kick in when a Bitten went feline instead of canine and Stilinski wasn’t there – yet.

“Just shy of two weeks ago.”

Now _that_ had eyebrows rising in surprise on the faces of the trio of born alphas.

“No shit.”  Smitty blinked, a bit bemused himself.  “Adaptable little shit then.”

“Oh yeah.”  Derek snorted, shaking his head.  “Gets attacked by a rogue and has _werewolf_ tagged in less than a day, _adaptable_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Though Derek had to admit that he hadn’t _quite_ expected Stiles to go toe-to-toe with Satomi Ito.

Don’t get him wrong, Derek wasn’t _upset_ he’d done it.

Not at all.

Satomi from his childhood memories of the alpha had always been the her-way-is-the-only-way sort and had _more_ than butted heads with Peter though she’d gotten along well enough with his mom as allies.

But he didn’t want her getting _ideas_ about the Hale Territory and if putting Stiles in a situation where his natural _fuck you that’s why_ attitude took control and prevented any such ideas from forming well, that was something he was willing to do.

Though he was dead certain the younger shifter was going to chew his ear off for it later.

“I’m glad you were finally able to come home, Derek.”  Jess said softly, giving him one last hug.  “Despite the circumstances.”

“Yeah.”  Derek coughed, shaking his head as he fought down tears for the hundredth time that day.  “Fuck, but me too.”

“We’ll take care of things in New York.”  Ric assured him, clapping him on the back once Jess had let go of the younger shifter.  “Just send a text or an email with where you want everything sent.”

Derek winced, clenching his eyes shut for a long moment then opening them – the others ignoring their shine – and speaking.

“Give the furniture away to whatever charity.”  He said, waving a hand before pinching the bridge of his nose.  “It doesn’t matter.  I’ll get you an address for the rest soon.”

“Whenever you can, Derek.”  Ric reiterated.  “There’s no rush.”

“Yeah.”  Derek blew out a shaky breath.  “Yeah, okay.”

…

Standing at the doors to the Hale Crypt in Beacon Hills Memorial Cemetery, Derek wasn’t surprised to feel eyes on him.

With how publicly he’d advertised that Laura’s ashes would be interred there in private, it was like sending up smoke signals that could be seen for miles around about what his whereabouts were going to be at some point following her cremation.

That said, he also wasn’t surprised to catch a familiar scent when the light – if frigid, it was still January after all (and _fuck it was_ only _still January_ ) – breeze changed direction and carried it to his nose.

Or when he turned, despite having not heard anyone approach, and saw the lean-but-tall form that accompanied the scent.

“You didn’t have to come, Stiles.”  Derek nearly sighed in exasperation, neatly hiding the relief at not having to do this much on his own under it, much like he’d hidden his ongoing mixture of bafflement and relief over the Stilinskis’ support under scowls and grumbles.  “I can handle this myself.”

“Sure.” 

Stiles agreed with that easily enough.  From what he could tell, Derek was an abnormally self-contained individual, especially with all the impulses and instincts of a shifter to rein in.  Impulses and instincts that Stiles was getting to know – intimately – for himself as his body and mind and _self_ adjusted and made room for, as his mom put it via his dad, his _maximum genetic potential amplified by the inherent magic of the Gift._   Which didn’t quite cover the reality of having a whole new outlook, a distinctly _animal_ outlook, to grapple with but did a pretty good job of explaining his new eight-pack abs.

That was a definite plus to being Bitten.

He’d been in good shape before it, hard to be a three-sport plus kendo and yoga and tai chi doing teenaged boy and _not_ be in good shape even if he’d never had the bulk and stacks of muscles that were popular among a lot of jocks his age.

Now it seemed any extra he did over and above his shifter-charged metabolism yielded some seriously impressive results.

And having a flexible spine alá cheetah certainly helped make him even _bendier_ than he’d been as a yoga practitioner and instructor, much to Scott’s dismay since he’d been after his bro to try it with him as one of the ways to help control his growlier-half.

“But that doesn’t mean you should _have_ to.”  Stiles continued, unruffled by the lowered brows and stoic mien of his Shifter 101 mentor.  Too bad for Derek but he’d always been a quick study, even before he had cheetah-charged vision to help.  He was making decent inroads into figuring out the small differences in Derek’s scowls and frowns and broody expressions and filing them away into their actual meanings that the other shifter just couldn’t quite express appropriately.

Though given what the dude had been through in his life, he couldn’t really blame him for having issues.

That he managed to communicate and emote _at all_ he was putting down to therapy.

Which, seriously, someone needed to get him back into.

Grief counseling after his mom died may have seemed like bullshit at the time, even if he was a bit too young to put it that way, but having one of your only remaining family members brutally murdered almost exactly six years after the rest of your family bar one were also killed didn’t exactly make for a well-adjusted individual no matter how well he seemed to be coping on the surface.

He’d mention it to his dad.

There was no fucking _way_ that any way Stiles could phrase a suggestion like therapy to Derek would be taken well, for a variety of reasons up to and including the fact that he was actively helping Derek track the rogue who killed his sister and bit Stiles and Scott so Derek could kill them dead.

But, hey, everyone had their coping mechanisms.

That vengeance wasn’t exactly a healthy one was for a therapist to unpack and deal with, not Stiles.

Derek didn’t say anything to that, choosing instead to just stay quiet as Stiles stepped up next to him and then pushed open the door to the crypt, which lit up a pretty grid of light blue to Stiles’s eyes.

“Whoa.”  He blinked rapidly as the spots in his vision disappeared a moment later.  “Wards?”

Derek nodded, muscle in his jaw flexing a moment and his hands clenched around the simple titanium urn he’d chosen with the Hale triskelion engraved into the top, then stepped forward and through the wards, Stiles remaining outside the crypt as the wards let him know that he wasn’t welcome there.

No, it was a place for Pack.

For family.

For the Hale bloodline alone.

So he stood in the gloaming twilight and watched.

Stood vigil as Derek set the urn long moments later in a recess in the wall.

Watching, silent and for once unmoving as he flicked a finger and loosed a claw with control that Stiles doubted he’d ever manage to gain and etch something carefully into the stone.

Though when he caught a glimpse when Derek turned back to the doorway and let the crypt as silently as he came, he was less than surprised at what he found.

Unfortunately thanks to Laura’s murder and the investigation surrounding it, that wasn’t the first time he’d seen a spiral lately.

Though the first time he’d seen it, he’d had no idea what it meant.

Or that it was the shifter sigil for rightful vengeance.

A pact.

One as strong and old and binding as the bloodlines that ran in both their veins or the love that tethered them to those still living, even if Derek’s bond to Noah and Stiles’s to Peter were relatively new in comparison to their opposites.

They were still there.

Still strong.

And more and more, Derek felt them taking firm root in a place inside him that had been cold and wounded and hollow for far too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did some research and from what I can tell they substantially understaffed and misrepresented police via the Beacon County Sheriff's Department in Teen Wolf based on the canon-approved population of both Beacon Hills and Beacon County.
> 
> So, in my experience, a sheriff's department and their deputies are responsible for policing the unincorporated areas of a county, basically everything not contained inside the legal limits and boundaries of a city. In TW, there's no police department shown with authority over Beacon Hills other than the sheriff's department which would be a no-no since even tiny little po-dunk towns of a couple hundred people tend to have at least a token or volunteer police force outside of the larger county sheriff's department.
> 
> That said this is why the police representation in TW makes absolutely zero sense:
> 
> Apparently in the US, there is a national average of about 16-17 officers/deputies plus an additional 5 support staff for every 10,000 people per city/area.
> 
> Which would put Papa Stilinski in charge of at least 48 deputies and another 15 mixed staff for the city Beacon Hills alone out of a total department-wide employment of 800 officers/deputies and 250 staff.
> 
> Yeesh. Some food for thought depending on how accurate or realistic I'm going to be as the department actually figures pretty heavily into later seasons...
> 
> End rant.


End file.
